With Rosemary and Sage, and Oranges
by Kang Xiu
Summary: Hamlet and Les Miserables meet, dance for a time, and fall apart again. In which Enjolras is an actor, and Courfeyrac, Cosette, and Grantaire are only too happy to help him rehearse. EnjolrasGrantaire slash. Complete.
1. Collect Ingredients

"'...With Rosemary and Sage, and Oranges...'"  
  
He is aware of standing on a marble floor. The first thing he notices is that the stone is cold beneath his feet, and afterwards, that a little way off there is a rug made from some animal's skin, perhaps a horse, and that it would be easier to stand there, and that there his feet would not be cold.  
  
But what calls his attention is more important than the floor. He bows his head of tousled gold, and rakes a hand through it, feeling a twig of rosemary brush his fingers. He pulls it free, and looks at it for a moment, then tucks it back behind his ear. He can hear a woman's voice, his mother's, and yet disregards it, tilting his head sadly at the figure before him.  
  
"Do you not come your tardy son to chide, that lapsed in time and passion lets go by the important acting of your dread command? Oh say!"  
  
And the figure tells more words to him, which tremble in its haunting voice, and it settles a pale, grey-transparent hand on his torn black sleeve. He takes in these words but could not repeat them. He understands what is said without comprehending, and he is sorry.  
  
"Speak to her."  
  
Another command, but easier achieved than the first. He goes down on velvet knees before his mother, and takes both her small hands in his slender ones, whispering:  
  
"How is it with you, lady?"  
  
It does not please her, as he'd half thought it would. As the figure had demanded it, he'd been vaguely sure that it was the right thing, which would stop her talking with this anguish. She momentarily runs a bewildered hand over his tangled hair, asking him questions he wouldn't be allowed to answer. She asks to whom he is speaking, as though she could not see the figure.  
  
And he answers her back, "On him, on him! Look you how pale he glares. His form and cause conjoined, preaching to stones, would make them capable!"   
  
And from somewhere quite far away, he hears a man murmuring, "That's so. They would, for you."  
  
Yet that's quite far away, and he is distracted. The figure glances at him, and he rests his head against his mother's shoulder, trying to fend off the glance by flapping his hand at it helplessly.  
  
"Do not look upon me, lest with this piteous action you convert my stern effects! Then what I have to do will want true colour, tears perchance for blood."  
  
He shivers, protesting that with all his mind. And now his mother speaks, and he does his best to ignore it, though he cannot. She's always asking questions. He's always trying to avoid them. She repeats it, a little louder, adding the unknown question of "Enjolras?" before the repeating.  
  
"Do you see nothing there?" he asks of her, quivering and pulling away from her.  
  
She sees nothing. Of course she sees nothing. And now the figure is fading, leaving, and he's not sure he was ready yet. She ought to see before it is gone, though, and he does his best to make her see. He gestures. He points.  
  
"Why, look you there. Look how it steals away. My father, in his habit as he lived. Look where he goes even now out at the portal."  
  
And yes, he *is* pleading. Why can't anyone ever see anything? His madness is false, but it seems as though the world is trying to make it real. He stands, away from what else she is likely saying to him, brushing down the long black-velvet tunic, brushing out the frayed edges, and with a sad fondness, smoothing down the wrinkles over his heart. Suddenly, he turns, catching his mother's last word.  
  
"Ecstasy!"  
  
He has more to say, but, as the figure did, the world fades around him, and he is once again standing in the back room of le Musain in his shirtsleeves, across from a wide-eyed Courfeyrac.  
  
Christophe-Marie straightens, and glowers fiercely at the man. "What's wrong now? Have I missed a line?"  
  
Martin regains some composure. "Oh, no, my lord. Prince Hamlet is very eloquently and unmistakenly spoken. I admire your ability to make it seem as though he were in the room with me."  
  
Christophe eyes him balefully, and reaches out for his script-book, taking it from Courfeyrac. "Thank you for helping me rehearse." He runs a hand over the soft, worn leather cover, with the words, 'Hamlet, Prince of Denmark' cut sharply into the surface. He's loved this now-familiar book, and the scent of dust that goes with it. If he ever goes home again, he'll make sure that his father purchases the play in some form to put in the family library. If he ever goes home...  
  
Courfeyrac breaks in on his reverie.  
  
"My pleasure. Oh, I meant to ask. Shakespeare's rather not the thing these days, is he? Your director is an ambitious man."  
  
"My director..." The golden-haired actor turns away, annoyed with being disturbed in his thoughts, and equally bothered by the mention of his director and his director's purposes. "My director is doing as he sees fit."  
  
["'Hamlet' isn't a popular play right now, Enjolras. But you're a good actor, and a very handsome man." Clavier winked. "We'll get quite a crowd, even if half of them are only young women."]  
  
"Of course." Martin leans over the table and takes the book back from Enjolras. "We weren't quite done with that act, were we? Let's finish it."  
  
Christophe regards him. "Very well. Act three, scene four, line one hundred and fifty-one of that. Give me my cue."  
  
As Courfeyrac begins speaking, Christophe finds himself returned to Denmark. He finds himself back in that hall with the cold marble floor, facing his mother. He finds himself once more dressed all in the loose black velvet, torn at the hems, and smelling faintly of rosemary. He finds himself Hamlet again. 


	2. Beat Together With a Whisk

"'...Lemon, Parsley, and Cayenne...'"  
  
This time the floor is just as cold, and just as hard, saving now it's his back that's pressed into it. He thinks perhaps he could arise, but his arms feel oddly weak, and it's difficult to move. When he looks down, there's blood trailing from a thin wound along his collarbone. He manages to brush a finger over the spot, smearing it, and he sighs. It doesn't really hurt so much, only as much as he'd expect a rapier cut to hurt, but there's something wrong with it.   
  
He becomes aware, slowly, of someone holding him, and he looks up to a frightened face. He cannot help but smile, attempting comfort, and then with an effort, he pulls a twig of rosemary from his tousled golden hair, and presses it into the hand of the other.  
  
"I am dead, Horatio." And he doesn't quite mind. He's just rather surprised. "Wretched queen, adieu." He turns his head to see the body of the queen, and feels a gentle sadness, and then he tries to look out to all those around. He lifts his hand and waves it in a lifeless way at them. "You that look pale and tremble at this chance, that are but mutes or audience to this act, had I but time, as this fell sergeant Death is strict in his arrest, oh I could tell you--- But let it be." He looks up at his companion. "Horatio, I am dead; thou liv'st; report me and my cause aright to the unsatisfied."  
  
The young man, however, chooses to be difficult. He whispers softly that he would not live, that he will die, that suicide is honourable to him, that-- He reaches for the chalice, whispering still:  
  
"Here's yet some liquor left."  
  
The golden-haired boy frowns, and places his hand over the rim of the goblet. "As thou'rt a man, give me the cup."  
  
His companion doesn't, but tugs on it.  
  
"Let go!"  
  
Resistance.  
  
"By heaven, I'll have't!" He jerks it away, pulling it to himself, nudging it under himself. He glares, feeling foggily stubborn, almost as though he were drunk. But then, of course, he softens. "Oh, God, Horatio, what a wounded name, things standing thus unknown, shall I leave behind me! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, absent thee from felicity awhile, and in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, to tell my story."  
  
And the other man nods, blinking rapidly.  
  
He smiles in a sort of content, and then frowns again in bewilderment, having not the strength to startle. "What warlike noise is this?"  
  
A man rushes in and speaks, hurriedly, saying their enemy Fortinbras has stormed the castle, he's here, it's over. And ha! It *is* over.  
  
"Oh, I die, Horatio..."  
  
Fingers brush back a tangle from his forehead.  
  
"This potent poison quite o'ercrows my spirit. I cannot live to hear the news from England, but I do prophesy th' election lights on Fortinbras. He has my dying voice. So tell him with the occurent more and less, which have solicited..." He can't remember what he was going to say, and he's dreadfully tired, so he doesn't protest his companion's gathering him close. "The rest... is silence..."  
  
Christophe-Marie suddenly notices that there is a light weight on his stomach, and peers in confusion at the script-book that resides there, open to the second scene of the fifth act of "Hamlet".  
  
"Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest." It is a rough voice, a familiar one, and yet now it is gentled, with touches of sorrow.  
  
Christophe blinks fuzzily at the arms around him, holding him delicately, and pokes one of the wrists. It is then that he realises he is lying on the floor, in the back room of le Cafe Musain (of course), and that the arms belong to Grantaire. He squeaks, and tries to push himself up, dislodging the script to the floor.  
  
"What are you *doing*?"  
  
"Helping you rehearse. You asked." The voice is rougher now, and Rodolphe has his protection back. He gazes at Enjolras, considering the boy. His demi-god looks amazingly vulnerable like this, with his golden hair ruffled and unbound, staring with those dark blue eyes.  
  
"Oh..." Christophe sighs, and gives up worrying about it. "Well, thank you. We'll continue."  
  
"We can't. You're dead."  
  
"Oh."  
  
There is a prolonged silence.  
  
Finally, Rodolphe breaks it. "Why the hell were you drunk enough to let me help you?"  
  
"Frederique quit our theatre. He couldn't stand M'sieur Clavier any longer. But I don't blame him. Sometimes I can't either..."  
  
"Why don't you quit, as well?"  
  
"Because I *can't*. I have a responsibility. I play the *lead*. I couldn't just leave..."  
  
Rodolphe scowls. "You ought to anyway."  
  
Christophe shoots him a far fiercer look. "I can't."  
  
"All right, then. Far be it me to argue with Apollo. Or rather, Prince Hamlet." He pulls to his feet. "Good luck. Best wishes. Don't kill yourself. Bonne nuit. Au revoir. Adieu." He's gone.  
  
Christophe glares after him, and then wonders what he's going to do. He's in an awful state tonight. First drunk, now this... But he will miss Frederique. And now they'll need a new Player King. Clavier will manage that somehow, though.  
  
He sighs again. Better go home. It wouldn't do to sleep in the cafe, even if Courfeyrac would come early and wake him in time to be prepared. Besides, he has schoolwork to do, and a speech to write, and the lines for the other play to learn. Often, lately, he thinks he doesn't have time for this. Often, it seems as though he must choose between acting and the revolution.  
  
Once "Hamlet" is done, he promises himself, he'll stop with plays for a while. The people are more important than his theatre time. And he sighs once more. The wine, of course. In the morning, he'll have gone back to normal, and then it will be the Republique again. Tonight was a slip. And it shan't ever be repeated. 


	3. Add Dry Ingredients, Including Cocoa

"'...Cloves and Red Wine Vinegar...'"  
  
He lies on his back in his bed, tossing the foil lightly from hand to hand. His fingers slip easily into place on the grip, curling around the shape of the thing, settling into their place. His forefinger is pressed against the soft leather on the inside of the guard, and the tip of his thumb touches there as well. The guard itself is spotless, saving that there are scratches along it, where other weapons caught him. He watches his reflection, and suddenly realises there are fingermarks just above his left temple. He frowns, and polishes them off with his cravat, half-untying it.  
  
The foil is a fine weapon, although it is blunted, a practice blade. His real foil stands in a corner, wrapped up in oiled cloth to keep it from rusting. That is a better blade, finely made, better kept than this one, and some day he will fight with it. Not yet, however.  
  
He extends fully, holding up the tip, making a perfect line of his arm and the foil, making them one. This is something his instructor insists on: becoming part of the weapon. He attempts to touch the ceiling of his small room, stretching his arm as far as he can. When that proves not enough, he lifts his rib cage, forcing his body to rise, and triumphantly he hears the soft clink of the tip against the plaster.  
  
He allows his blade to fall, and rests it along his chest, the edge of the guard at his ear, one hand at his throat to touch the cold metal, and the other crossed with it over his heart. He closes his eyes, and smiles dreamily. This is the weapon he will use when he fights Laertes.  
  
He starts, suddenly, and sits up, hearing a knock at the door.  
  
"Come in."  
  
It's Courfeyrac. He might have known. The brown-haired boy enters cheerfully, shutting the door behind himself, dropping to the floor beside Christophe-Marie's bed.  
  
"Bonjour!"  
  
Christophe is thoughtful a moment, and does not answer. The ease with which Courfeyrac completes that action, leaning against the side of the bed, crossing his long legs, seems practiced, as though he'd been there many times before, sitting in the same spot. Which he certainly hasn't.  
  
"Bonjour..."  
  
Martin beams at Enjolras, feeling cheeky. "I saw a perfect Ophelia for you today. I was walking in the Luxembourg. She had lovely hair, curls of ebony, black as the unfathomable night," --He relents-- "well, perhaps lighter than all that. Dark brown, anyhow. Brunette. And she had brown eyes, as well. Deep ones, fit to fall into and so on. And there was even a jealous Polonius walking with her; an old man who appeared her father. Gave me an evil look as I went by, and all I did was wish her good day and smile."  
  
"I'm sure. Polonius had some good sense, you realise of course, Courfeyrac."  
  
"Oh, of course, of course he did! But he was still a suspicious bastard." Martin's tone is far happier than it has any right to be. "But I saw this girl, and I thought of you, and how fine an Ophelia she'd make for you. You'd have been lovely together."  
  
"We have Ophelia. She's fair," Christophe adds pointedly.  
  
"I suppose..." Martin sighs, and reaches up to stroke the blade of the foil, resting beside its master. "You're too difficult. I put forward an honest idea, and you throw it aside without considering it."  
  
"I didn't need to consider it. The director has already cast Ophelia. Her name is Delphine Forêt."  
  
Martin clicks his tongue. "Faugh. It sounds low-class. I prefer my Ophelia without having ever seen yours."  
  
Christophe feels a wave of exasperation. "Yes, thank you, m'sieur de Courfeyrac."  
  
"Ha! You've sunk to my level! You're calling names! You're despicable!"  
  
"Courfeyrac..." The man is so childish sometimes. It's hardly believable no one's challenged him to a duel and blown out his brains yet. Although it's true that he's so completely idiotic no one would hurt him, in the way that an eccentric is considered harmless, he's certainly provocative and annoying. And then, too, he can be disgustingly disarming at times.  
  
Martin smiles. "Of course. I shall be very good now and be silent." He knows Enjolras' opinion of him, and it's rather hurtful, but the best way to avoid being hurt by anything is to make everything into a joke. The world is lying around waiting to be teased.  
  
"Did you come here for no reason except that you wanted to make a nuisance of yourself?"  
  
"Oh, I came to tell you of Ophelia. She is mad, my lord. But that's all one. Have you a speech you write? Have you papers? My lord, I daresay thou'rt in a quandary. On the morrow's our next meet--"  
  
"Mm-hmm. I know."  
  
"And yet thou hast no word to spread. Does it come to you, like manna from heaven, what you say? Have you but to stand and speak, and know that we will listen? Are the words brought to you as you face us?"  
  
"No. My speeches are all in a locked drawer in my desk, which is why you can't find them upon it."  
  
"Of course. Once again, of course. He is too clever."  
  
"He is sensible. It wouldn't do to leave revolutionary documents lying about."  
  
"Ah! C'est vrai!"  
  
"Courfeyrac." He comes to his feet in one movement, rising lithely, like a cat, and pulls the addressed up as he does so, so that they are facing one another standing. "Courfeyrac, I appreciate that you are loquacious, but this isn't the time. You may stay here, you may leave me alone, or you may follow me, as you will, but you will do it *silently*. And in the meantime, I have a fencing lesson."  
  
"Oh, lovely!" Martin is undaunted despite the angry Enjolras confronting him. "I'll come along, shall I?"  
  
Christophe-Marie gives him a look that plainly states that it's about time he shut his mouth.  
  
"But quietly..."  
  
"Good." The golden-haired boy thrusts the all-too-familiar script-book at Courfeyrac. "You can help me rehearse on the way there."  
  
"Oh, not again. Enjolras, I appreciate that you are a fine actor, but don't you think it's a little much to spend every waking moment on this damn play?"  
  
"But you wouldn't object if I spent every waking moment on the Revolution. Both are important to me, and both will take time and preparation, Courfeyrac. Yet I believe I told you that you were to be silent. Did I not?"  
  
"You did." Martin knows what 'silent' means. "Which act?"  
  
"Four, scene two."  
  
"Very good, my lord. 'Enter Hamlet'…" 


	4. Stir in Vanilla

"'...Egg Whites, and Lavender Sugar...'"  
  
In this, he sits alone. For once, he speaks by himself, and speaks well, he thinks. He slides a hand up his neck to his ear, and his fingers curl around a stem. Rosemary. Of course. There's a dreadful lot of rosemary. He always has rosemary in his hair; bits and pieces wove into the gold.  
  
[To be or not to be], he says.  
  
Someone counters, [there's rosemary, that's for remembrance...]  
  
A voice, another of those unknown voices, murmurs those words to him. But it's not an unknown voice, or rather it is, save twisted around. He knows the voice, and yet he doesn't. It's familiar, but he couldn't place it.  
  
Rosemary...  
  
That's why there's always rosemary in his hair. To remember. There are so many things to remember; to be mad, he must remember to be mad. That's not so hard any longer. Madness comes easily to him, soaking into his fingertips. It's a tremendous game of pretend, and sometimes it's not pretending.  
  
[That is the question  
  
Whether 'tis nobler in mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?] he demands softly.  
  
The voice, strangely pleasant, though it is tainted with a certain uncertain harshness, retorts, [pray love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.]  
  
Thoughts...  
  
He has thoughts. They're just rather a bit jumbled together right now. But they're good thoughts. He has nice ideals, too, if you cared to know. The difficulty is not knowing.  
  
Carefully, he pulls away rosemary, picking some of it out, twirling it and crushing it between his fingers so that they stink of the herb. He lifts his fingertips to smell a little of the juice that came from the slender leaves, and then rubs it on that spot on his collarbone. He's not quite sure why, but it seems as though something important happened... as though something touched him there. The memory won't come. It fights, rebelling against him, and with it comes a tiny jot of pain, just as that same thin line along his skin. Where something happened that he can't remember.  
  
So he bathes it in rosemary. Clever, that.  
  
[To die, to sleep-- no more; and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to-- 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished: To die, to sleep-- to sleep, perchance to dream], he finishes triumphantly.  
  
The voice is softer, and yet closer, protesting, [there's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb to grace o' Sundays. Oh you must wear your rue with a difference.]  
  
Flattery...  
  
Thanklessness...  
  
Repentance...  
  
Wear rue with a difference? Wear repentance with a difference? The difference of the repenting. Now he has flattery, and he's been given thanklessness, and he's also in possession of repentance... thus is the voice. They share one plant, one stem.  
  
There is wrong that must be made right, this he remembers. There is wrong, and he must right it. But suppose it's too heavy to turn upright, suppose then? With his shoulder to the cart, his eyes closed, straining all his body in a vain attempt, he's terribly vulnerable.   
  
He imagines robes, dark purple in colour, like wine. And a crown, a thin gold circlet. Why, it wouldn't even show up on his head. It would sink into golden hair, and become invisible. He cannot help but smile, thinking of his hair now. It's fluffy, and there doesn't seem to be another word for it. It's like goose down; it's so unbrushed, and tangled, and light now, and it makes him think of silk threads. What one is left with after unravelling a silk shirt. That pile of airy fibres, all netted together. No, a golden coronet would disappear if it tried to sit in his golden fluff.  
  
His crown was always meant to be made of rosemary. Rosemary that was purple-green, and showed up well. Rosemary.  
  
He was never meant to be King, really, it's obvious. But the man who is King was not intended for it either. Rosemary.  
  
He remembers who the robes belong to.  
  
[Ay, there's the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause; there's the respect that makes calamity of so long life, for who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the pangs of the disprised love, the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes, when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin?]  
  
He speaks calmly, unhurriedly, making sure each word comes out properly. He speaks like a boy who was never meant to be king, but who could have been. He speaks like one who wears rosemary, so as to remember things that must not be forgotten. It's a good speech he makes, and it shall be heard. Those that hear it shall know of him; of his dignity though beset by madness; of his task though he was not made to kill. He keeps on, still without hurry, although the other voice might break on him at any time.   
  
[Who would fardels bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns, puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.]   
  
A long speech, so, but a goodly one. He's said what he must say, and someone will have heard it. Someone will have heard him, and someone will listen.  
  
The voice, finally given its space to return a few words, does this: [there's a daisy; I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. They say he made good end...]  
  
He did. Don't worry. He did.  
  
Dissembling...  
  
Faithfulness...  
  
Faith withered...  
  
The voice spoke far fewer words than he did, and yet they have the power to silence him, as clearly his words could not the voice. He sighs unhappily.  
  
[Soft you now, the fair Ophelia... Nymph, in thy orisons, be all my sins remembered...]  
  
~~~  
  
Rodolphe bites his lip momentarily. Sitting across from a sleeping Olympian, listening to him recite soliloquies from excellent tragedy, and answering him back with different lines, none of which you could profess to know, but which you were reading off from the script-book open by his hand, is a difficult task, if only because you're hard pressed not to stroke his hair. Besides, the next lines in the script for Ophelia are singing. *Singing*. What madness.  
  
It is a play about madness...  
  
He clears his throat hesitantly, and half-sings, half-falters through "For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy," and then gives up. He rests a hand on Enjolras' shoulder and shakes him gently.  
  
"Wake up. Apollo."  
  
Christophe-Marie blinks sleepily, and whispers, "What is it?"  
  
"One o'clock in the morning. You fell asleep."  
  
"I did?" Enjolras lifts his head, and Rodolphe notes that there's a pattern marked into his cheek from it being pressed against the open books so long. He daringly reaches out and runs his fingertips along the mark.  
  
Christophe pulls back, gathering up his things. "Grantaire," and his voice shakes a little, angry, of course. "Grantaire, one night I was drunk and I allowed you to overstep the boundaries of respect for a man's person. Do not make the mistake of thinking that will happen again." Books collected, he makes for the door, leaving Rodolphe alone.  
  
"Alas... I am scorned Ophelia as well as Horatio, am I, my lord? I would play your whole cast for you, if it would please you. Be run through as Polonius, battled as Laertes, made to drink poisoned wine as Claudius - a fate fitting to one such as I. Alas, prince... You'd only want a woman for your Ophelia." 


	5. Add a Dash of Clove Oil

"'...Apples Baked in Honey...'"  
  
Part One  
  
He doesn't usually have the time to walk in the sun of an afternoon. Usually, a play, another play, a different one from this time last week, a most excellent tragedy, a tedious brief comedy - although he's not into the habit of comedies -, a historical drama, a satire: usually, he wouldn't have the spare moment to come to the Luxembourg gardens. And yet, today he does.  
  
He walks slowly, though it is a not the sauntering step that belongs to one such as Courfeyrac. It is simply a slow walk, and he makes his way around rose bushes and hedges with it, stopping now and then to touch the curve of a petal wonderingly.  
  
If Courfeyrac were here, he would make some remark about how the Fearless Leader is turned lamb by flowers, disregarding even "Hamlet" for the tender pink of young buds. Courfeyrac wouldn't know that Enjolras has a script-book in his coat pocket.  
  
Christophe-Marie wouldn't be practising it, though, far too enthralled by the branch of a pear tree, and the white shower from it, and the gold-grey of shadows flickering through it, although he doesn't seem to really very much care about it. He does, once, lift his face up, and allows his cheeks to be momentarily dusted with white flowers. Then, of course, he looks down again, a lock of golden hair escaping and falling over his ear. He pushes it back unthinkingly, and accidentally crushes a few strayed flowers, finding them tangled in.  
  
Picking petals out of one's hair is a strangely earthly task, and he finds that the surrealism of the pear storm is vanquished, gone with each discarded blossom.  
  
At last he resumes his walk, looking back regretfully, and finding that, unceasingly, a few words are running through his head.  
  
//And pansies, that's for thoughts...//  
  
(Damn it, what did the man think he was doing last night? Grantaire. Difficult, persistant, loud. Almost as annoying as Courfeyrac, though the latter is more exasperating, and the former infuriating. But that night, and then yesterday. It's impossible to know what's in his head. And good lord, rehearsing the death of Hamlet... Becoming aware, cradled gently in *his* arms, of all people. Being himself, he probably would've tried to take advantage of you. Wouldn't put it past him. It was a good thing you were reasonably sensible... And then last night, falling asleep like that. And he *was* reading off the script. The places were changed, and there was a mark on the page from his fingers. God knows what it was.)  
  
"Pardon, m'sieur..."  
  
He takes his eyes off the ground, and realises that he is standing in the way of a young woman and her escort. He moves to the side, and waits for her to go past, but she stops, and smiles at him.  
  
"M'sieur was admiring the rosemary? There's rather a lot for a public garden, isn't there? I wonder if it just grew on its own?"  
  
"Likely," he murmurs courteously.  
  
"Rosemary... That's for remembrance..." she says thoughtfully.  
  
He startles. "Yes, that's so. And pansies for thoughts."  
  
"And pear blossoms for hope."  
  
"Cosette," the older man coughs. "I'm afraid we should be getting on."  
  
"Cosette?" That isn't what he'd expected to hear.  
  
"Cosette. --Yes, papa."  
  
(But she oughtn't to leave yet! She can speak in flowers; she knows what they mean. She could be Ophelia. The ease with which she'd said, "Rosemary, for remembrance...", it fit her. It sounded natural to her, and she hadn't made any effort to seem pitiful, as Delphine insists on doing. She's just true. She speaks in truth. What this girl is, is not too sweet, or too anything, or artificial, or aught but real. That was how Ophelia was meant to be. Just a person. You could play Hamlet to this woman.)  
  
He can imagine, for a moment, Cosette sitting on a streambank, garlanding willows in lavender and useless hellebore...  
  
He inclines his head politely, and moves aside again, waiting for her and her father to go on. The elderly man brushes past him first, coldly, looking at him fiercely a moment, and the girl follows, pausing to give him another smile.  
  
"Good day, m'sieur."  
  
"Good day, mam'selle Cosette."  
  
And she is gone, as quickly and simply as that.  
  
Part Two  
  
It is rather a time before he sees Cosette again. It is a terrible day, raining but without any thunder to liven it. Everything is grey, and drizzled, and there is a homeliness about Paris, and a dreadful quiet, destroyed only by the drip of the raindrops. Today, a practise was cut short, and he has the better part of three hours before he need return home and attempt schoolwork.  
  
And he therefore wanders the wet cobblestones of the city, going wherever he will, wrapped tightly in his coat, and thinking about the condition the homeless must be in, trapped in this. Some of them are likely huddled in doorways or in alleys, but most of them are suffering, soaked and cold. It's disgusting.  
  
When he comes to the iron gates, he stops, casting his dark blue eyes over the black metal patterns barring the world out.  
  
[[["Good my lord, how does your honour for this many a day?" she whispers, seeming afraid of him. Her hair is all down, just as his always is, saving of course hers is that nice dark brown colour, and his is golden. Hers is in curls, and his in fluff. Hers is combed through, and his tangled up.  
  
He steps forward, taking her hand gently. "I humbly thank you, well, well, well."  
  
She steps back, away, pulling her fingers from his. "My lord, I have remembrances of yours that I have longed long to redeliver. I pray you now receive them."  
  
(Remembrances of mine? I gave her rosemary? I did not.)  
  
"No, no, I never gave you aught." He insists this firmly, proving his point by plucking a large spring of rosemary from his hair and presenting it to her, raising his fine eyebrows to tell her, 'No, I still have this. I never gave it you.']]]  
  
Christophe trails his fingertips along the metal, slowly, not quite thinking of the action. He startles suddenly when he feels them brushed shortly by another pair of hands clasping the bars.  
  
"Mam'selle, I'm sorry. You will pardon me, please."  
  
"It's quite all right..." Cosette looks up at him with curious brown eyes. Her arms are stretched to reach as high as she can on the gate, and the long, floppy lace trim at her wrists falls back. "What is your name, m'sieur?" The rain drips down her skirts, sinking in and deepening the colour.  
  
"Ha-- Christophe-Marie Enjolras."  
  
"And you already know me. Cosette. White lilac." She frees one of her hands and brushes back a stray curl that has slipped from the blue silk ribbon she wears in her hair. Christophe is surprised; this is a difficulty he often endures. Then the last two words she spoke register. White lilac, for the innocence of youth.  
  
"You have luck."  
  
"To know nothing?"  
  
"To be innocent yet to the troubles of the world. I expect you are very happy."  
  
"I am not innocent of that. Fiacres have windows, and this is a gate, not a wall, m'sieur." She says it softly, though not nervously, trying to make him understand that just because she is a woman, she is not blind.  
  
"Of course... But if you are white lilac, and I ought to identify myself in the same manner, I am the willow flower."  
  
"With a touch of rosemary, m'sieur?"  
  
He can speak as softly as she. "Yes. Willow and rosemary."  
  
[[[She shakes her head, and reaches in a pocket of her dress to withdraw a few tattered letters and a bracelet. He tilts his head, not recognising them as she insists in turn:  
  
"My honoured lord, you know right well you did, and with them words of so sweet breath composed, as made the things more rich. Their perfume left, take these again; for to the noble mind, rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. There, my lord." And she presses them into his palm.   
  
He feels the soft crackle of parchment, and the cold stone of the beads in the bracelet. He raises the jewellery to study it, and sees the stones are blue. That's odd. Things connected with him are normally purple, gold, or black. He's certain he never gave these to her, but he shrugs, and slips them into his tunic. The dry paper is pleasant against his skin.  
  
The girl who stands before him appears unsure, touching the silk of her sleeves uncertainly. He smiles disarmingly, and clasps his hands, pressing the knuckles to his lips, then asks, "Ha, ha, are you honest?"]]]  
  
Cosette looks out past him, sighing a little. "M'sieur, I am innocent of much of the world, but that doesn't mean I don't also understand how many people are dying. On the way to the Luxembourg, we sometimes see them... There are girls out there, outside of our safe carriage, who are just my age. But one'd never know it. They're like dusty shadows, and they watch us. They look as though they hate us."  
  
Christophe frowns. They probably do. "Mam'selle, I intend to help them."  
  
"Yes. You told me that, willow." She smiles briefly.  
  
God *save* him, even the innocent can play Courfeyrac. "I did."  
  
She seems aware of having somehow displeased him, and casts around for some means to remedy it. The first thing that comes readily to hand is the high branch of the only pear tree in the garden. She breaks off a stem, and offers it to him.  
  
"Pear, remember, that's for hope? For good administration, also. For wise government."  
  
He takes it, pushing the twig of white flowers under his waistcoat. "Merci. Your knowledge is admirable."  
  
For some reason, this feels like a sort of rebuke, and she nods repentantly. "Thank you, m'sieur..." The rain begins to slow, the drops becoming few and silent, though the sky is still overcast.  
  
[[["My lord?"  
  
"Are you fair?" he questions her, reaching out to touch the line of her eyebrow.  
  
"What means your lordship?" She ducks back again, eyeing him with worry.  
  
"That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty."  
  
"Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?"  
  
Does she *ever* call him anything but 'my lord'? He regards her for a moment, then draws out from his tunic the bracelet, holding it up in the air, so that the late light that streaks through the window from the sinking sun catches it and makes the stones glow. Blue fire sparkles between his fingers, and he lets it fall, then neatly snatches it from it the air at the height of his waist. He is preparing for what he'll say.  
  
He gives her another disarming, guiltless smile. "Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it was to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof." A pause. "I did love thee once." And he presses the bracelet into her palm, in the exact same manner she used on him.]]]  
  
"I haven't upset you, have I?" Christophe asks warily.  
  
"Oh.. not at all." She shakes her head and looks at the ground, then looks up again, meeting his eyes. "Is there something you want?"  
  
He freezes. What he wants is difficult to request. And Courfeyrac would laugh at him. But it feels important, and she's delicately edged in dark gold from the setting sun. So, with slight apprehension, he draws the ever-present script-book from his coat pocket.  
  
"There is something. Could you...?"  
  
She takes it in confusion. ""Hamlet"? Do you want me to read it?"  
  
He carefully thumbs through it upside down, opening it at a certain spot. "Act three, scene one, line ninety-seven. Ophelia's part. Would you read that?"  
  
"Would you prefer I acted it?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I shall be Ophelia, if you like. I've read these lines before..." She says it with the wonder of one recognising a long-lost friend. 'I've seen this face before...' "I know them."  
  
[[["Indeed my lord, you made me believe so." She begins to close her fingers around the piece of jewellery, but he steps quickly forward and rests his hand over her soft palm. As he stands thus so near, he allows their shoulders to brush, then drops to his knees in a sweeping bow, taking the bracelet with him.  
  
"You should not have believed me." He springs to his feet, moving away, slipping it 'round his own wrist. "For virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I loved you not."  
  
She gazes downwards at her empty hand. "I was the more deceived."  
  
He sighs in frustration, and gives up. "Get thee to a nunnery. Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest, but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very proud," he tilts his chin defiantly, "revengeful, ambitious," he glares fiercely, gesturing, "with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves all, believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery."  
  
(Escape what befell my mother. Be faithful and fair, always, Ophelia.)  
  
"Where's thy father?" he adds as an afterthought.  
  
"At home, my lord," she whispers.  
  
"Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in's own house. Farewell." He turns away, hoping that the silly girl understands.  
  
She doesn't. Typically. "Oh help him, you sweet heavens!" When it's she who needs the help. He gives up again.]]]  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"Surely. Among all the books on how to speak in bouquets, I have some Shakespeare. I fancy "Hamlet". I can't recite it to you, but I can make it out." She strokes the book-cover, tracing the words cut in.  
  
"I see. Then..."  
  
"Then of course I will, m'sieur." She sits on the bench just inside the gate, and holds the book open. "'Good my lord, how does your honour this many a day?'" She looks up. "How do you, m'sieur Enjolras?"  
  
"'I humbly thank you, well, well, well.' Rather all right. Damp." He brushes back a soggy curl from his forehead, and she smiles, flicking back one of her own.  
  
"We are all damp. The world is damp, isn't it, m'sieur? The desert's drowning. The sea overflows. The small stream laced with willows is swelling, to overcome its banks. All the water will make the lavender grow. And the lilac."  
  
"And the rosemary shall flourish."  
  
"Whenever we have roast duck, I shall think of you. Just to bother you with the lack of dignity."  
  
"Sometimes you remind me of a man I know, named Courfeyrac."  
  
"Is he your friend, m'sieur?"  
  
"Most of the time."  
  
"Oh, that's all right then. But I've wandered. Here, 'my lord, I have remembrances of yours that I have longed long to redeliver. I pray you now receive them.'"  
  
[[["If thou dost marry," he tells her, "I'll give thee this plague for a dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go, farewell." He flaps his hand at the wide door of the hall. "Or if thou wilt marry, marry a fool, for wise men know what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go," he speaks sounding incredulous that she isn't already gone, and flaps a little more for effect, "and quickly, too. Farewell."  
  
"Oh heavenly powers, restore him!"  
  
She isn't listening. Feeling rather put out, he catches her wrist and earnestly informs her.  
  
"I have heard of your paintings too, well enough. God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another. You jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nickname God's creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I'll have no more on't, it hath made me mad. I say we will have no more marriages. Those that are married already --all but one-- shall live. The rest shall keep as they were." Flap. "To a nunnery. Go." His voice has taken on that high pitch of incredulity again.  
  
She still isn't understanding a thing, just staring wide-eyed at him. He shakes her gently, then throws up his hands, and turns away. She'll never see. It's useless. She'll never understand how important it is that she not be allowed to grow into a woman who is easily seduced. And judging by his mother, all women are easily seduced. And therefore logic declares that the girl go off to a convent, and remain precious.  
  
He gives up for the third time, and abandons her.]]]  
  
Cosette ends at last, squinting at the pages in the dim light of evening. "'Oh woe is me, t' have seen what I have seen, see what I see!'" She closes the book. "We have done't, lord. We have finished." She gives it through the bars of the gate, standing against the metal to return the script.  
  
"Thank you very much," Christophe whispers.  
  
"It was nothing, really. You read a wondrous Hamlet, lord." She curtsies, bowing her head, and he places a hand on her shoulder.  
  
"Thou'rt Ophelia."  
  
"Yea, if thou wishest it, lord."  
  
"You needn't always say 'lord'."  
  
"Very well, m'sieur."  
  
"I ought to leave, oughtn't I?" He takes her small hand and kisses it politely. "Farewell, mam'selle Cosette."  
  
"Au revoir, m'sieur. Rosemary!" she calls after him as begins to make his way along the cobblestones.  
  
He turns back once. "Rosemary." And then he smiles at her for the first time, an angel's smile, beautiful and a little frightening and superb, a smile to be etched in stone.  
  
And he is gone, as quickly and simply as that. 


	6. For God's Sake, Watch Where You're Leavi...

"'...Strips of Cold Turkey...'"  
  
He sits alone in the cafe, long after the others have left, staring at a candle on his table. The tall, white pillar burns slowly, a golden flame, flickering a little from a draft somewhere, though he couldn't tell where exactly. A book is open at his elbow, an inkwell open at his hand resting upon the table, and sheets of parchment neatly stacked before him. A quill rests loosely in the embrace of the hand reclining near the inkwell, and a few drops of black have gathered precariously at its tip. His head is propped in his other hand, the fingers sprawling over his cheek, and the tip of one touching the bottom rim of his eye. His hair is coming down, still half-hooked in the leather strips tying it back, with long trails hanging past his ears and tips straying under his collar. His eyes are closed, though he is not asleep, and overlong lashes flutter slightly when he tries to become truly awake. Every so often, he chokes back a yawn, and sometimes his eyes water a little, smarting from the holding back of sleep so long.  
  
The parchment has the beginning few words of a speech upon it, already inspiration just because he wrote them, done in his handwriting of neat, precise characters, and yet the ink is dry. Along the side of the page, very small, is the word "Ophelia".  
  
If Prouvaire saw the man now, he would dare to murmur "lovesick", and Joly would surely fret over him. Christophe-Marie's expression is a hopeless confusion, with a hint of unsure longing; an expression meant more for Pontmercy than for Enjolras.  
  
Courfeyrac would laugh.  
  
As it is, he sits alone, sometimes hearing a few scattered noises in the streets, and sometimes startling ever so slightly when a oddly midnight fiacre clatters by. By early morning, he is tired enough that he doesn't hear the door open, or see Grantaire slip inside.  
  
Rodolphe freezes, and stares disbelievingly at the almost-slumbering angel, gilded with pale sunlight and perfectly still, making himself a thing of marble, or else a heavenly ghost. The sot edges forward, expecting Enjolras to move at any moment, and feels quite surprised when he doesn't.  
  
A few steps away, and Rodolphe catches the back of a chair, drawing himself along with it, falling silently into it, and resting his arms on the tabletop. He considers it his bounden duty to look after his demi-god when he's thus unprotected.  
  
A moment later, Christophe acknowledges the other presence.  
  
"Grantaire?" It would be. If it's not Courfeyrac, it's the bloody drunkard.  
  
"Oui, Grantaire. Are you all right?"  
  
"Me? Of course I am. Why would you think otherwise?"  
  
"You're pale. And you're also sleeping in this cafe, which seems to be a dreadful thing of no repute, as you always go stiff when I find you here at night, something which has now happened three times."  
  
"Go away," he mutters wearily, turning the quill between two fingers. He accidentally draws the nib up a third finger, staining it with an excess of black ink.  
  
"Just go away? Harsh. Abrupt. Don't send Horatio away, lord Hamlet."  
  
"Why shouldn't I? Don't call me lord Hamlet."  
  
"Of course, only Courfeyrac may do that and live."  
  
"I don't have time for this; I have things to write; talk sense, or leave me be."  
  
"Only tell me what's wrong."  
  
"Damn it, Grantaire, how should I know what's wrong?" Christophe puts his head in both hands, striping one cheek in wet ink without noticing. Rodolphe sighs, and reaches out with his forefinger to brush it away, then realises the mistake in that, and with a small effort, remains still.  
  
"Perhaps you shouldn't. God knows whatever's wrong you shouldn't confide in me. You oughtn't really tell me anything, or allow me to sit here. Rather close, isn't it, the winecask in proximity too near to Apollo for decency."  
  
"I don't have time for this, either..."  
  
"I'm your bloody Horatio, or I was, once. Right now, let me make you a promise. Right now, I shan't turn a thing back on you you say."  
  
"That's not the difficulty. The difficulty is that I despise you," Christophe explains patiently. "I wouldn't tell you my mother's name. If I was worried about your ridiculing me, I should have sought you out and tried to reason with you ages ago, when you first began it." He's rather too tired to care what he says at this point, and it's only Grantaire who'll hear, anyway. "I dislike you. You're disgusting. I don't understand why a man should waste himself the way you do, or why you revel in the absolute defilement you've done to yourself. That's why I don't care to speak with you, or listen to you. You don't make any sense, and you're irritating--"  
  
Rodolphe, hurting from and sick of the explanation, catches Enjolras by both wrists, taking an hardly perceptible care not to make the action rough, and demands, "What the hell is bothering you, m'sieur?!"  
  
Shaken, Christophe lowers his eyes and whispers with utmost dignity, "There's a woman..."  
  
"Oh, *God*!" Rodolphe bursts into a fit of hysterical giggles. "It would be!"  
  
The golden-haired angel simply stares, astounded by Grantaire and by himself. 


	7. Melt Butter in a Double Boiler

"'Creme de Menthe, and Vanilla, and Rum...'"  
  
[[["What, the fair Ophelia?" he murmurs in shock, and runs a hand forcefully through his hair, collecting a large bit of rosemary.  
  
(Ophelia... for Ophelia... fair Ophelia...)  
  
He crushes the rosemary, smashing the leaves and purple flowers, and bathes his hands, fingers and knuckles, in the strong-scented juice. Of course, she isn't *gone*. That's as mad as he is. She isn't dead, but remembrance just the same. Just to be sure? Just the same. He stares at his hands, wet with rosemary, and with strands of golden hair beneath his nails. Ophelia.   
  
In the distance, he can hear his mother speaking, sorrowfully. Something about sweet and farewell, and... (My wife? She should have been my wife...?) and graves? Strew'd graves? His eyes widen further. They're not strewing Ophelia's--- They're - Ophelia's -- Oh, *God*. God's *blood*.  
  
He raises his head, and looks up. And there's Laertes, the silly fool. Him too? He's here...? --No, there's a good reason for that. Laertes is her brother. But this is confusing. And Laertes is talking. It sounds like a challenge.  
  
"Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, till of this flat a mountain you have made t o'retop of Pelion, or the skyish head of blue Olympus."  
  
Fool. Olympus isn't blue. Expect it's gold, or something. It does sound like a challenge, at any rate, and he advances towards fool Laertes.]]]  
  
"Pontmercy..." Christophe-Marie puts a hand on Marius' shoulder. Marius shakes away, furiously, his soft brown eyes struggling to come to blaze.  
  
"Don't do that!" The boy looks despairing, his face anguished, standing on that cobblestoned street, six houses from 55 Rue Plumet. His shirttails are coming out of his breeches from running too hard, and the buttons on his waistcoat are slipping out of their fastenings. "Enjolras!"  
  
"Pontmercy, what on earth is wrong?"  
  
Marius chokes. "Enjolras! Ursula... I love her."  
  
"I know you love that girl, man. You spend enough time dreaming on her. I don't see why that's a difficulty, except for me when you aren't paying attention."  
  
The boy's hand is incredibly weak as it comes across his face. He barely feels any pain from the fingers trying to leave an imprint on his cheeks.  
  
"Don't you see?! God, I love her! And you spend every day with her, after pretending to all of us that you're too good for any woman!"  
  
"Pontmercy!"  
  
[[["What is he whose grief bears such an emphasis, whose phrase of sorrow conjures the wand'ring stars and makes them stand like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet, the Dane!" He presents his own challenge, and names himself. He doesn't do that often, and he's trying to prove that he isn't completely mad. Not when something so precious is at stake.  
  
Laertes lunges at him, angrily. "The devil take thy soul!"  
  
(He's already got it...)  
  
He doesn't move as Laertes' hands fasten 'round his neck, pressing. He only closes his eyes, drawing in his breath with dignity. The boy is so very helpless. This barely even hurts, right now. --No. Tight.  
  
"Thou prayest not well," he says, gasping a little, "I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat, for, though I am not splenitive and rash, yet I have something in me dangerous, which let thy wiseness fear." His blue eyes blaze like Laertes' never could. "Hold off thy hand!" He flips Laertes over on his back, easily, leaning on his chest.  
  
"Pluck them asunder!"]]]  
  
Combeferre catches Marius' shoulder.  
  
[[[The Queen calls out to him, but he ignores her, infuriated by Laertes.  
  
"Good my lord, be quiet."]]]  
  
"Good my lord, be quiet." Grantaire seeps his way over Christophe's shoulder, curling his arm over, pulling. And Christophe's Horatio parts him from his foe.  
  
"God *damn* it, Pontmercy! The girl at the iron gates is called Cosette! We read "Hamlet" together!"  
  
Courfeyrac giggles helplessly. "He never stops that idiotic play. Well, we are a company met. Enjolras is Hamlet; Marius - you're Laertes; Combeferre, you must be Claudius, for you protect Laertes. And I'm Gertrude. I chose my role long ago. Wine-cask, thou'rt Horatio, for you instead protect Hamlet." He grins and ducks over to Combeferre. "Well met, husband. I'm sorry you'll die so dishonourably."  
  
"Courfeyrac," Christophe mutters through gritted teeth, "get out of here. Get out of here now. We have matters to settle."  
  
[[["Why, I will fight with him upon this theme until my eyelids will no longer wag!" he insists, aggravated by Horatio's refusal to let him go.  
  
His mother wishes to know upon what theme, and he frowns in disbelief.  
  
"I lov'd Ophelia! Forty thousands *brothers* could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?"]]]  
  
"Marius... You've a rival. You're the only who loves Ursula, and Enjolras is the only who loves Cosette, but Ophelia is beloved by you both." This comes from Grantaire, calling out from behind Christophe. "You'd best get used to it, if you're playing Laertes! That's how it goes!"  
  
"Grantaire, you go with Courfeyrac, and get your hands off me."  
  
"Oh, he is mad, Laertes," cries Courfeyrac.  
  
[[["Oh, he is mad, Laertes," advises the King.]]]  
  
"No, that's not my line! Combeferre!"  
  
"Courfeyrac, will you please leave? Enjolras has commanded; I ask."  
  
"Oh, that's no use! For love of God, forbear him!"  
  
[[["For love of God, forbear him," cries the Queen hopelessly.  
  
"'Swounds, show me what thou't do!" he demands of Laertes. "Woo't weep? Woo't fight? Woo't fast? Woo't tear thyself? Woo't drink up eisel? Eat a crocodile? I'll do't! Dost come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I; Millions of acres on us, till our ground, singeing his pate against the burning zone, make Ossa like a wart!" See if you quote mythology at *me*, boy. "Nay, an' thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou."  
  
And he will, too. Damn child.  
  
"This is mere madness," the Queen intervenes, "and thus a while the fit will work on him; Anon, as patient as the female dove, when that her golden couplets are disclos'd, his silence will sit drooping."]]]  
  
Marius stands three feet from Christophe-Marie. Combeferre keeps him gently back, firmly holding his white-clothed wrists from behind. Grantaire has his arms around Christophe, also from behind, resting his cheek against Christophe's back, in a moment of weakness, forgetting that his only excuse for this close proximity in the first place should be Marius' protection. Courfeyrac stands between the four of them, smiling amiably, quoting at them all, oblivious to Christophe's fury and Marius' meaningless anguish.  
  
Finally, Christophe rips away from Grantaire, turning from them, striding down the street in the opposite direction. His walk speaks of disgust, of anger, and also of lost, thwarted love. Grantaire runs after him, half-trotting, unsteadily as though he'd been at sea and is regaining his land legs; not a drunken unsteadiness, but an unused one.  
  
[[["Hear you, sir, what is the reason that you use me thus? I lov'd you ever. But it is no matter. Let Hercules himself do as he may, they cat will mew and the dog will have his day." With a pronounced calmness, he turns on his heel and stalks away.  
  
"I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him," the King entreats, and Horatio obeys, following the Prince as he leaves the graveyard.]]]  
  
Combeferre kneels before Marius, whispering to him kindly, and at last stands. He sets an arm comfortingly about the boy, and begins to lead him away.  
  
Courfeyrac stands by himself, then. He sits in the middle of the street, and looks up at the sky. "The play will end soon, won't it? I shan't be allowed to play Fool any longer. I shall have to play the Queen and place heart in my role. That's how it goes..."  
  
He looks over as a girl's voice questions, "Monsieur, are you all right?"  
  
"Cosette, come away," says the Polonius beside her.  
  
Courfeyrac knows. And he smirks to himself. "Ophelia!" he gloats.  
  
Cosette's eyes widen. 


	8. Stir Butter in with Cocoa Mix

Spanish Olives and Slivers of Asian Pear  
  
He takes good care of his un-blunted blade. The blunt blade is a strong one, a fine one, and he will fight Laertes with it, he knows. But the real one, the one in the corner, the one that could really cut and kill - he will have that in his revolution. It will be useless, for the soldiers who fight him there will have guns, and he will have to leave it and use a carbine instead. That doesn't need saying. And yet... He will take it along.  
  
Today, he sits on his bed with his knees drawn up, and the real foil lies on the bed before him. It looks just like the blunt one; leather in the guard, shining, oiled down, even the same sort of grip. But there is no metal ball at the tip, and the blood channel isn't full of blue cloth. A beautiful blade. He's a little afraid of it.  
  
It's out because he must think. The wild thing that happened yesterday was madness. Courfeyrac compared it to "Hamlet" over and over, and the trouble was, it fit. They fell into their roles as easily as falling on ice. The lines fit. Life shouldn't conform to a play written ages ago. He should only be Hamlet when he's onstage, wearing the right sort of clothing, surrounded by actors who were meant to play their parts. And--  
  
When someone raps on the door, it's full welcome. He jumps to his feet, and his hand closes like routine around the grip of his foil, fingers sliding into the grooves. He throws open the door with his free hand, breathlessly, hoping for Courfeyrac, or - better luck - Combeferre. He's not the same as he was a month ago, so in control of himself and his life. He's tripped. He's lost a friend, and his realities are creeping into each other, and then there's Ophelia - Cosette - and he needs someone to talk to. Anyone will do.  
  
He freezes when he sees who it is. He has no idea what he looks like: his golden hair in disarray, clutching an un-blunted foil, his waistcoat and shirt undone down the front. He looks quite as mad as the boy he plays.  
  
Rodolphe freezes in turn, falling back a step.  
  
"--Lord. Beg pardon. Clearly this isn't the time. I'll go."  
  
"Get in here." Christophe-Marie shakes his head wearily, and gestures with the blade. Thankfully, Rodolphe obeys without question, slipping past him and standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Christophe follows after, and sets the foil on the bed. A few moments neither of them speak, and at last he sinks down on the floor.  
  
Rodolphe speaks suddenly, sharply.  
  
"Well, Hamlet, it appears the poison's getting to you. I should expect no civility on a good day, and I'm certain sure I don't know why you've let me in here. Want a Horatio, do you? And bloody Courfeyrac's well and convinced he's Gertrude. Gertrude Courfeyrac. A very fitting name. Claudius Combeferre. The alliteration isn't flattering. Laertes Pontmercy. Foolish. Laughable. Then there's me. Horatio Grantaire? Good God. No, I'm Rodolphe. Have a piece of soul. It goes well with tea and sweets, pride of England." His dark eyes stare angrily at his feet.  
  
Christophe frowns. "What have I done today? I haven't said anything to you, barely."  
  
"No, no, you've said nothing. Don't mind me, and you'll feel a hell saner when I've gone. You let me in for something; now talk. I expect that's what you want. Tell me anything in the world, and mad Grantaire shall assure you it's locked away forever. I'll forget as soon as I'm back to my absinthe. What's the trouble, Lord Hamlet?"  
  
"You know, don't you?" Christophe flops down on his back, looking up at the ceiling. "I thought you would."  
  
"I don't know, however. Unless you mean that girl of yours, dearest Ophelia, who has an overprotective brother." Rodolphe shuffles over to stand above Christophe, peering down at him.  
  
"I mean her, I suppose. I don't know what to do. You heard Pontmercy. Apparently I've convinced you all I'm chaste as marble."  
  
"Some of us were convinced, yes."  
  
"I can't see why. I'm a man just like all of you. The matter is, I respect things more than you do. I respect myself too much to be like you. I respect women too much to treat them the way Courfeyrac does. I don't go off with every girl I see for because I respect them. And you've no respect, and that's why you seem so surprised. You mistake respect for hauteur."  
  
"Yes, and the folk you don't respect are your followers. Look at them once in a while and see if there's more than just your impression. If we were all in some great book, we'd be a load of clichés. There's your skirt-chaser, your luckless one, your poet, your drunk, your idealistic leader. That's pathetic if you want to write a proper story. There's more there than that, and you've got to look at all the little hints the author put in for you so you could see we've got depth. If all you can get is the clichés, you're too blind to read the book. That's the end of it, Enjolras. You know that *you* aren't transparency because you know yourself, and you know all your own filling bits. You simply haven't bothered to see anyone else's. Bad way of it, really." Rodolphe sits beside him, glancing over.  
  
"When you say 'us' you mean 'me'."  
  
"Perhaps I do. What makes you think I want to be your cliché any more than the rest of them?"  
  
"But--"  
  
"Damn it, doesn't Claudius pray God for forgiveness? If the wicked old incestuous king, as you're so quick to pin him, has enough humanity to feel guilt, why can't a plain, ordinary sot have the humanity too?"  
  
"What are you guilty about?" Christophe asks crossly.  
  
"Nothing in particular. I was only saying."  
  
"You know, you invited me to tell you what was upsetting me. As far as we've gone, you've only gone on about your troubles with me."  
  
"You're a beautiful man, and a selfish brat."  
  
"I'm *afraid*. The world is going mad about me. I want a revolution like anything, but I keep forgetting why. My plays are turning into my life. Perhaps the world isn't mad. Perhaps I'm going mad as Hamlet."  
  
"Perhaps you should give it up. I told you before if you hated working with your bastard director, you should quit it."  
  
"And I told you that the lead of the play can't quit."  
  
"And if the lead of the play can't quit, the master of the revolution can't quit either. You're having us on greatly, aren't you? You don't even want it, *do* you?"  
  
"Yes, I do. I do, Grantaire. And I know why I want it." Christophe takes a deep breath. "I want equality for the world. I want injustice gone. I want everyone to have a say in his life."  
  
"Damn good actor."  
  
"It's not acting." Christophe is quiet now, not indignant, and he reaches up a hand that searches for Rodolphe's face. He catches the other man by the chin, and his slender hand forces Rodolphe to look straight at him. "I mean it. It doesn't sound much because I'm drawing it back from inside. I was forgetting. Liberty, equality, fraternity. What I believe in, Grantaire. I won't give it up for the chance of acting in a few more plays."  
  
"Thank God. I thought for a moment you'd abandoned us."  
  
"Not yet. Now get out of my home."  
  
"If I don't go, will you prod me out with that?" Rodolphe gestures at the foil.  
  
"No. But you will go."  
  
Rodolphe sighs once, lightly, bitterly, and braces his hands on either side of Christophe, leaning over him. "Suppose I don't?" Quickly, he kisses him, just brushing his lips. Rodolphe seems almost like a child, taking a risk for something he knows he oughtn't have.   
  
When he draws back, Christophe meets his eyes evenly. "But you will. Now."  
  
"'Course." He stands.  
  
"Horatio?"  
  
Rodolphe turns back, half-trembling, as though he expects something and doesn't want to expect it, and doesn't know if it'll be offered anyway. "Lord?"  
  
"Look after Ophelia. My mother should have ordered you do so, and that's what the script says, but I don't trust my mother as much as I would the Cardinal Richelieu. Laertes is wild, Polonius a fool, and Claudius barely has an interest. Look after Ophelia."  
  
"As my lord pleases."  
  
Christophe watches intently until he's gone, then stands and moves to the bed, and rests his hand on the forte of the foil. The metal is cold, and he shifts his index finger. As he does so, he feels a soft prickle, and quite suddenly his finger is wet with blood.  
  
It's a beautiful blade. A beautiful, dangerous blade.  
  
It'll come to the barricades. Now that he's remembered what he's fighting for, the blade will match to him. It will be easier to hold it, and kill with it, and use the clear blood channel.  
  
A beautiful blade.  
  
~~~  
  
Rodolphe slinks through the streets, muttering to himself in his soft, rough voice, "Look after Ophelia. Bloody Ophelia doesn't need looking after. Anyone can see if she's got Enjolras for her own she doesn't need any bloody looking after."  
  
When he reaches the iron gates, he glowers, his homely face fleetingly showing anger, or hurt. He curls his fingers through the bars, giving the late afternoon sun a resentful look.  
  
"'Phelia! 'Phelia!" Somehow, he doesn't feel a bloody idiot for saying it. And the girl comes. Her face is solemn, and her dark curls would match Enjolras' if he wore his hair as long.  
  
"I imagine that's me. That's what you all call me."  
  
"More than Enjolras and I?"  
  
"Yes, another boy. With brown hair and green eyes..."  
  
"Courfeyrac. Poor girl, if you met Courfeyrac. He's a bloody nuisance. Utterly mad."  
  
"A little."  
  
"Well... I'm Horatio, then." Of a sudden, he seems shy.  
  
"So you're to look after me, as the Queen orders?"  
  
"The Queen didn't order it this time. The Queen's Courfeyrac, you might as well know. This order came from Hamlet. He's worried, says he. I'd be worried, too. I'd be worried the Queen would try and take you to bed." He speaks gruffly, and as though he'd rather be anywhere but explaining this to the girl.  
  
She colours slightly. "I wouldn't let him."  
  
"Good girl."  
  
There's a terribly long pause.  
  
"Well... Suppose I've looked up on you, then."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"God, this is like a prison, isn't it? Iron bars everywhere. Overprotective father, I fancy? Appropriate."  
  
"Papa is a wonderful man, and he loves me, and takes care of me. If he's overprotective, it's only because he cares for me so."  
  
"'Course, 'course."  
  
"If you're going, tell Hamlet..." She reaches up and breaks a branch off the flowering pear tree. "Just give him this. He'll understand."  
  
"I'm sure he will." Rodolphe looks at the branch dismally, and stuffs it in one of his greatcoat pockets.  
  
"Isn't it odd that grapes are for abandonment?" she says quietly, and he shivers.  
  
"No odder than anything else."  
  
"Here, take this." She thrusts a handful of lavender flowers at him, and he takes them, without the faintest idea of the meaning, and stuffs them in with the pear.  
  
"Merci. Quite. Good day."  
  
"I'm sorry..."  
  
"Good day." He turns away, muttering again to himself. "Not doing a very good job of looking after Ophelia, are we? Not at all. What have we to show for our bad job? Why, a pocketful of flowers."  
  
Cosette watches him go, and abruptly breaks another branch off the pear tree. She sits on her marble bench twisting it around her fingers, and as they become sticky with the juice of the flowers, she wishes she weren't part of this play. She remembers the boy in the Luxembourg walking past her and blushing, and his lovely sweet face, and she'd rather play Miranda to that boy's Ferdinand than Ophelia to this beautiful, dangerous Hamlet and all his ensemble. 


	9. Beat the Living Daylights Out

Point one: Cosette's eyes are not an integral part of this. They will likely not come back. I am sorry if they obstruct your reading experience.  
  
Point two: "Hamlet" was in fact translated at that time. I spent three hours online researching this. I cannot in perfect honesty say the same for "Much Ado About Nothing" and "The Tempest". If I am incorrect, please to forgive.  
  
"'Grapes Are For Abandonment...'"  
  
It is a fine day, a fairer day than Paris has seen in a week of slow, drizzling rain. The clouds have at last parted, and Cosette once again comes out to her garden. Her marble bench is covered with leaves, and still wet, and she comes out armed with an old bed-sheet. Conquering the bench proves easy, and she soon smothers it beneath the grey cloth. She sits, then, with a playful childish vanity, smoothing her green dress down over her knees.  
  
Her pear tree is flourishing and covered with white blossoms, though the ground is also carpeted with them. It bears fruit as well as flowers, and it's terribly lovely to her. She gazes fondly at it. It's likely older than she is, but it looks quite as young. Such a pretty thing. She fancies to herself that no other girl is Paris has such a lovely garden, cared for by her father and adored by her.  
  
She looks away from it suddenly, hearing footsteps on the cobblestones outside her gates. The telltale fingers curl about the iron bars, and she sighs softly.  
  
"Oui?"  
  
"'Phelia?"  
  
"Oh! Horatio." She stands lightly and steps over, looking through with interest. "I thought you weren't coming back."  
  
"And yet here I am."  
  
"Upon what errand, good gentleman?"  
  
Rodolphe raises his eyebrows. "Just to wonder. You don't really fancy lord Hamlet, do you?"  
  
"No. I don't really."  
  
"*Do* you fancy anyone?"  
  
Cosette blushes and ducks her head. "Oh... I don't think you know him. I saw him in the Luxembourg. He had a shabby coat at first, but he started wearing a better one. Just because he walked past me, I think. He has the most beautiful eyes..."  
  
"Oh, I know him. We all do. He's our Laertes. The coat he stole from Gertrude. Borrowed," Rodolphe amends. "He fancies you too, if you'd care to know. It was all we could do to keep him from Hamlet the other day. They have all the enmity they should."  
  
"He fancies me as well?"  
  
"Indeed. 'Phelia, you're a lovely shade of pink."  
  
"Ought I not be?" She half-laughs. "I'm happy. It's always nice to know your fancy isn't one-sided. I hope Hamlet doesn't chase him off. I hope he *comes*. It would be terribly splendid. Do you fancy any girl, Horatio? Or is your loyalty to Hamlet alone?"  
  
"I stick by my play."  
  
"I shan't stop you. Ah, I should give you roses to take to *him*, save that I don't think you like carrying my flowers all over Paris."  
  
"Not particularly. I'll do you a favour this once, however. After that, find another errand-boy."  
  
"Why will you do it for me this once?"  
  
Rodolphe looks at her carelessly. "The next best thing to finding out your fancy isn't one-sided is finding out your competition doesn't want to be competition."  
  
"*Oh*."  
  
"You needn't say it like that." He glares.  
  
"Well, I don't mind. Love can't be wrong. It's love."  
  
Rodolphe frowns a little, watching her innocent faerie-tale face. She clearly thinks what she says is so. She has her fingers wrapped around the bars, and her head tilted to one side, giving him an earnest smile. She isn't beautiful, but a pretty girl, with her long brown curls and her slim fingers. If she didn't look quite as innocent, he might pin her for a girl other than Ophelia. Perhaps Hero, though she looks to have more sense than Hero. Odd.  
  
"You really oughtn't be Ophelia, ought you?"  
  
"I wanted to be Miranda."  
  
"Miranda suits you. I ought to let you out, to see the brave new world."  
  
"Oh no, Ferdinand must let me out."  
  
"Very well, then. Give me your roses, and I shall convey them to your fancy. Just this once."  
  
"Done." Cosette smiles again, and turns about into the garden. He waits patiently until at last she returns with a small bundle of pink and red rosebuds. "Do you think he would understand?"  
  
"*I* surely don't. Of course, he's a daintier boy than I, as you may likely have told."  
  
"Pink rosebuds are for grace and gentleness. Red rosebuds are for innocent hope. And this one, do you see, the white one" --she holds it up for his scrutiny-- "is for love and respect. If he doesn't understand, you must please tell him."  
  
Rodolphe makes a sweeping bow. "Surely. May the two innocent children delight in one another, and live a happy faerie story ever after. Miranda and Ferdinand. Has a better ring than Hamlet and Ophelia, I fancy."  
  
"Thank you. And luck to you," she adds earnestly, handing through the bouquet.  
  
He ignores her, transferring it to his pocket with slightly more delicacy than what he used on the pear branch. "Au'voir, cheri."  
  
"Au'voir, Horatio."  
  
"Oh, and this time I really don't intend to come back. The last visit, for you will have drowned."  
  
"And been reborn."  
  
Rodolphe gives her a small, ugly grin, and starts away. Cosette returns to her bench, feeling thrilled. It is true, then, that she oughtn't be Ophelia. Now, without guilt, she'll move on to a different play. Thank heaven. She closes her eyes blissfully and allows herself to enjoy the sunlight and the scent of pear blossoms. 


	10. Grease the Cake Pan and Flour it

A confession.  
  
"'Chocolate poured over unresisting Cherries, and flakes of Piecrust...'"  
  
[[[He gazes in surprise at the doorway to the room; surprised that they come evidently to see him; surprised that Horatio is among them; surprised to see Horatio, for he had thought never to see Horatio again. How very odd. And that place on his collarbone is starting to hurt *again*. He smoothes down his black velvet tunic carefully, and makes a small bow in welcome as Horatio calls out greeting. Something pricks his stomach, and he notes that a small piece of rosemary is caught in his sash.  
  
(What goes on?)  
  
"I am glad to see you well," he says, and then pauses, feigning further surprise. "Horatio! Or I do forget myself." He laughs, and embraces Horatio. It is so very good to see Horatio again, after all this time. But as he does so, the place on his collarbone twinges hard and he gasps softly, missing almost all of what Horatio says, only catching the end.  
  
"Sir, your good friend; I'll change that name with you; and what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio? Marcellus," he acknowledges one of the other men shortly, as that man tugs his sleeve. "I am very glad to see you," he adds to Horatio. The other bloody man coughs politely, and he turns around and acknowledges him as well. "Good even, sir." He turns back to Horatio. "But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?"]]  
  
Christophe-Marie sits back in his chair, tilting his head inquiringly at Rodolphe. "Yes?"  
  
Rodolphe makes a sweeping, flourished bow, and announces, "I humbly thank you for granting me an audience, my lord. It was kind of you, considering the obscene schedule you keep: school, writing, acting, sleeping, school - you've barely the time to eat, much less waste these three minutes with me--"  
  
"You've surpassed three minutes. Shall I demand you leave? Just speak."  
  
"I shall be brief: Your noble love is dead."  
  
"Beg pardon?" Christophe raises an eyebrow.  
  
"Ophelia. She's not yours. She's gone. Dead, if you will."  
  
"Nothing's happened to her?" Christophe is standing in a flash, shaking just a little from trying to hide his worry.  
  
"Nothing, but she's not going to be Ophelia. She's gone. She wanted to be in another play."  
  
"But *why*?"  
  
"Because within this play, we've already an incestuous king, and she tired of more of the same. Laertes and Ophelia have gone, my lord, to another realm."  
  
"Not Pontmercy? What in hell would she see in Pontmercy?" Christophe inquires calmly.  
  
"Pretty eyes, says she."  
  
[[["A truant disposition, good my lord," Horatio tells him solemnly, his lovely eyes sparkling.  
  
"I would not hear your enemy say so, nor shall you do my ear that violence, to make it truster of your own report against yourself: I know that you are no truant; but what is your affair in Elsinore? We'll teach you for to drink ere you depart."  
  
Horatio's eyes flicker towards the ground. "My lord, I came to see your father's funeral."  
  
He smiles bitterly, and rests a hand on Horatio's sleeve. "I prithee, do not mock me, fellow-student; I think it was to see my mother's wedding."  
  
Horatio looks even more ashamed, and mumbles his next words: "Indeed, my lord, it followed hard upon."  
  
Fully aware everyone is now uncomfortable, he jauntily proclaims, "Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd-meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables." Then he shifts his gaze to one of the windows, and continues, "Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven or ever I had seen that day, Horatio! My father! --methinks I see my father..."  
  
"Where, my lord?" Horatio asks, and suddenly his voice seems terse, as though there were something far too interesting about that statement.  
  
"In my mind's eye, Horatio," he says, but Horatio does not relax himself. How odd. But everything is odd these days.]]]  
  
"Good God. But she was my Ophelia--"  
  
"Not so. She was Pontmercy's Miranda. It was only just that none of us ever noticed."  
  
Christophe-Marie gives him a venomous look, and falls back in his chair with a pronounced weariness.  
  
"What shall you do now, my lord?" Rodolphe sits on his table, kicking his feet a little. "Shall you get drunk again and rehearse your death with me? Shall you stab young Pontmercy to death with that sword of yours? Shall you kill yourself?"  
  
"I shan't do a thing. I shall finish my work and go home. Why would I do differently?"  
  
"Because you're an Enjolras. You have proud eyes and perfect hands and a countenance fit for expressions of disgust. If this occurrence occurred ever before in your family history, I shall wager the Enjolras severely trounced the other man, but refused any drinking to his health. I shall also wager he gave the man a perfect look of utter revulsion, then turned, went home, ate his supper, wrote letters, washed his hands, went to bed, and in the morning, not only refused to give any details of the fight, but also refused to acknowledge that the fight ever took place."  
  
"Grantaire..."  
  
"On the other hand, if it ever happened to a Grantaire, the Grantaire beat the other man to death with an empty bottle, and then returned to the tavern to get a new one and complained about the inconvenience."  
  
"Grantaire..."  
  
"If it happened to a Courfeyrac, the Courfeyrac seduced the woman in question anyway, carried her off somewhere, and concluded by preventing the man from hurting him by seducing the man as well."  
  
"Why in God's name are you wasting yourself the way you are, Grantaire?! When you want to, you can clearly talk. You're good at it. Why are you doing all this" --Christophe gestures at the bottle of wine on the table beside Rodolphe-- "to yourself?"  
  
"It was amusing at first... Now the thrill is gone, but it's too difficult to stop." Rodolphe smiles amiably. "Rather like that fact that it might once have been amusing to play Hamlet, but now that Courfeyrac's lined up roles and Ophelia's drowned herself and all that rot, it's simply depressing. But you can't stop, because it's only the beginning of the third act, or something in the vein."  
  
[[["I saw him once; 'a was a goodly king..." Horatio whispers sadly.  
  
"'A was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again." He touches Horatio's shoulder lightly.  
  
"My lord, I think I saw him yesternight."  
  
"Saw? Who?" The place on his collarbone blazes with pain again.  
  
"My lord, the King your father."  
  
"The King my father!" It hurts like nothing else, and he presses his fingers to the spot, all the while staring at Horatio as though he were mad.  
  
"Season your admiration for a while with an attent ear, till I may deliver, upon the witness of these gentlemen, this marvel to you." Horatio indicates the other two men, and at last he understands their purpose. To bear witness; or rather, to agree.  
  
"For God's love, let me hear!" he demands.]]]  
  
Christophe flicks his fingers tiredly at Rodolphe. "Yes, you're right. I still don't understand, however. You ought to stop. I could get out of the play if my future depended on it."  
  
"It is not a matter of simplicity. But that's all one." He hops down off the table, coming to stand before Christophe. "What shall you do now, with only Horatio?"  
  
"Something. I haven't decided yet. Foremost, I intend to finish my work. I should have been done before now, if I had been given the solace to do so."  
  
"Ah! And you send me off. Lord, my good lord, dear lord, sweet prince Hamlet. Is that in the script?"  
  
"I am not following the script."  
  
"That's all too plain." Rodolphe kisses him, softly, then drops to his knees.  
  
"Why on earth do you continue to do that?"  
  
"No reason at all," Rodolphe says carelessly.  
  
"It's not right," Christophe reprimands.  
  
"Why not? Is it not right in itself; is the act not right? Or is it that anything I do is not right; so instead the performer is at fault? If Combeferre did the same, would you protest?"  
  
"*Combeferre*?"  
  
Rodolphe throws up his hands. "Never mind."  
  
"Why Combeferre?"  
  
"Let it be."  
  
"But why you, then?"  
  
"Look at him. Look at the man. He has my name; my soul; the very creeping innards of my corrupt body; my blood is his; and what more does he ask for? Why, my secrets too. Yet what are secrets? Words one refrains from speaking because of personal worry. What do my secrets hold for me? I have no good name to defile, no family to disgrace, no career to lose hold of. I have only green faeries and absinthe and a rather old greatcoat. Why, then, my secrets are meaningless." Rodolphe tilts his head back to look at Christophe.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Yes, what?"  
  
"If you mean to tell me, just tell me."  
  
"How to tell you? I tell you, Hamlet, if a man is too blind to see what's been clear for ages, he is likely also too deaf to hear it said."  
  
[[[Horatio positively glows.  
  
He shakes his head. Horatio was always rather like this. A disgusting mix of eagerness and prudence. Philosophic and deep, kind and understanding; and easily excited and fond of explaining things. And explain Horatio does, far more dramatically than the situation warrants, he thinks, ending with: "I knew your father; these hands are not more like."  
  
"But where was this?" he is able to ask at last.  
  
Here the man Marcellus breaks in to answer.  
  
"Did you not speak to it?" He frowns.  
  
Horatio goes on in his dramatic, silly way again, and amongst the needless phrases, he is led to understand that Horatio spoke to it, it made to speak back, but vanished when the cock crew.  
  
Cock crew, he mumbles in his head. What an idiotic expression. There must be a better way of saying it short of 'the cock crew'. If he were ever King, he would change that officially.  
  
"'T is very strange," he says.  
  
"As I do live, my honour'd lord, 't is true, and we did think it writ down in our duty to let you know of it."  
  
"Indeed, indeed, sirs. But this troubles me. Hold you the watch to-night?"  
  
Marcellus and the other man agree to it in unison, making perfect fools of themselves to his mind.  
  
"Arm'd, say you?"  
  
"Arm'd, my lord!" And this time the bloody three of them say it at once. Horatio looks about at the others, blushing.  
  
"From top to toe?" he asks, with slight amusement.  
  
"My lord, from head to foot!" Again, the three say it. This time, it is Marcellus who blushes.  
  
"Then you saw not his face?" Though he hardly shows it, it is the most important question he's asked yet.]]]  
  
"Just say," Christophe cries in exasperation.  
  
Rodolphe smiles, and looks more homely than ever as he finally speaks an answer. "Je t'aime. I love you."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Granted, it's a bit of a mad idea--"  
  
"It's more than a mad idea. Why in heaven's name?"  
  
"How the hell should I know? I wish I didn't. Some days, I should like nothing more in the world than to hate you, with all the glorious, decadent hate I can manage. But it's not so. What's to do then, as arrows are deadly things? If you wish it, I'll throw myself in the Seine now, and trouble you no longer."  
  
[[["O, yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up."  
  
Thank God for Horatio. The other two men are clearly senseless.  
  
"What, look'd he frowningly?"  
  
"A countenance more in sorrow than in anger."  
  
"Pale, or red?"  
  
"Nay, very pale."  
  
"And fix'd his eyes upon you?"  
  
"Most constantly." Horatio cannot repress a little shiver.  
  
"I would I had been there," he says wistfully, longing to have seen his father again - if it was his father.  
  
"It would have much amazed you," Horatio laughs in what seems to be surprise.  
  
"Very like, very like. Stay'd it long?"  
  
"While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred."  
  
Both of the other men insist "longer" at the same moment. Idiots.  
  
"Not when I saw 't," Horatio protests.  
  
He coughs, drawing their attention back to what is important. "His beard was grizzled, no?"  
  
"It was, as I have seen it in his life, a noble silver'd."  
  
"I will watch to-night. Perchance 't will walk again."  
  
"I warrant it will!" says Horatio.  
  
"If it assume my noble father's person, I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape and bid me hold my peace; I pray you all, if you have hitherto conceal'd this sight, let it be tenable in your silence still; and whatsoever else shall hap to-night, give it an understanding, but no tongue; I will require your loves. So, fare you well. Upon the platform 'twixt eleven and twelve, I'll visit you." He smoothes down his black tunic again, and finds the bit of rosemary in his hands. The others all speak, but he misses it. "Your loves, as mine to you; farewell," he murmurs as they begin to leave.  
  
Quickly, he catches Horatio by the hand, and presses the rosemary between his fingers, kissing his cheek just barely. Horatio smiles at him from his lovely eyes, and then slips out with the rest.  
  
He watches him go, and at last he speaks. "My father's spirit--in arms? All is not well; I doubt some foul play; would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, though all the earth o'rewhelm them, to men's eyes." With that, he too leaves the hall, smelling rosemary on the wood of the door.]]]  
  
Christophe stands, looking down at Rodolphe. "And trouble me no longer?"  
  
"Yes, that. I'll go right now, if you like."  
  
"No. Not yet. Hamlet should be entirely alone in Elsinore, but for his Horatio." 


	11. Bake at 350 for Half an Hour

"'Frozen strawberries and cold milk...'"  
  
It's cold again. The air around him is cold. He tugs the sleeves of his lovely black clothes, rearranging the velvet and smoothing. His rosemary is laced into his hair as always, and his hair is fluffy as always. Fluffy. Ha.  
  
The cold is, of course, because he's out in the open air. Outside of the castle. On the outskirts of a field. A wide field. A field dotted with little tents, everywhere, and little cooking fires, and men, warming themselves. They are the men of Norway. He sighs at them, wondering why they don't just go away. There's nothing to find in Denmark but a mad prince, a failed wife, a damnéd king, and a fair young girl with some old letters and a bracelet with blue stones. It's not exactly a prize.  
  
And the mad prince is leaving, as well, going to England. In the back of his mind, something insists that that shouldn't be so. It's not the prince that should be going to England. He disregards this. It's like the burn on his collarbone. It's another odd instance that makes no sense and comes out of nowhere.  
  
He sighs again. [[[How all occasions do inform against me, and spur my dull revenge]]], he says.  
  
There is a heavy silence. He has more to say, much more, but he's waiting... just a moment...  
  
[[[Let me speak to th' yet unknowing world how these things came about.]]]  
  
He *knew* it. It's the same voice he's heard before, speaking over him. It's the same voice, pleasant and harsh at the same time, gentle and cynical at the very same time. If it wasn't always talking over him, he might be fond of it. If it didn't always try to obscure what he was saying, he might like it.  
  
Suddenly, he smiles. Just a little.   
  
It's time to play the game.  
  
[[[What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time is but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more. Sure He that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and god-like reason to fust in us unused!]]]  
  
Let the voice answer to that. A goodly statement, to be sure. A good point he's making.  
  
[[[So shall you hear]]], the voice counters, [[[of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts...]]]  
  
His only quarrel with it is that it always cheats. It always speaks of things that have absolutely nothing to do with what he's saying, and yet these insignificant, meaningless things always give him pause. They always make him think. He wants to know what caused these terrible events. Will the person who enacted them be punished? Will the people disturbed by them be well again?  
  
It's just like the night when the voice spoke of rosemary. Rosemary, that's for remembrance, he thinks proudly. He remembers. He uses it properly always. He smears the juice on the spot that burns, and he wears it in his hair like a crown of laurels so that he never forgets. He knows how to use his rosemary. The only difficulty is that the voice was the one who taught him to use it, while speaking over his more important speech. One cannot win.  
  
He whispers to the voice, [[[Now, whether it be bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple of thinking too precisely on th' event -- a thought, which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom and ever three parts coward -- I do not know why yet I live to say, "This thing's to do", sith I have cause and will and strength and means to do't: examples gross as earth exhort me; witness this army of such mass and charge led by a delicate and tender prince, whose spirit with divine ambition puff'd makes mouths at the invisible event, exposing what is mortal and unsure to all that fortune, death, and danger dare, even for an egg-shell.]]]  
  
The voice seems rather reproving when it speaks again, as though telling him without words that he's spoken too much. Well-- it was perhaps a little long of a thing to say...  
  
[[[Of accidental judgements, casual slaughters]]], the voice goes on and stops. Amazing. He says everything he has to say all at once when he plays the game, and the voice makes every sentence stretch five metres or so. How can it stand to do that?  
  
[[[Rightly to be great is not to stir without great argument, but greatly to find quarrel in a straw when honour's at the stake.]]] There. That was short, wasn't it? A little sentence, a scrap.  
  
[[[Of deaths put on by cunning and forc'd cause...]]]  
  
Damn the voice for being so good!  
  
It's evident he's losing. He holds a piece of his nice rosemary in both hands and quietly tells the voice, [[[How stand I then, that have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd, excitements of my reason and my blood, and let all sleep, while to my shame I see the imminent death of twenty thousand men, that for a fantasy and trick of fame go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, which is not tomb enough and continent to hide the slain?]]] Is it any good to be brief when brevity does not explain the truth? Better, than, that he be long-winded and go on and on, than risk the voice not understanding how *important* this is.  
  
[[[And, in this upshot, purposes mistook fall'n on th' inventors' heads]]], the voice adds. It isn't listening to him! He shouldn't have expected it. It's pleasant enough, but why should it care?  
  
He finishes angrily. [[[O, from this time forth, my thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth!]]]  
  
[[[All this I can truly deliver]]], the voice completes its sickeningly drawn out sentence.  
  
By now, he's forgotten almost what it was about. It was about things that came about. Things that fell, but perhaps not into place. His crushed rosemary tells him so. He waits a bit, to make sure, but no further words come. He looks out at the army before him. The men from Norway. He sighs for them, and turns. The mad prince is going to England.  
  
"Lord, but you do fall asleep in cafés often. Someday it won't be me who finds you. Someday Courfeyrac, or Bahorel, will chance in, and then you'll be a right situation."  
  
Christophe-Marie lifts his head, and groans. "Oh, for God's sake."  
  
"Oh, for God's sake. It's best you finish this play soon. You keep reciting things in your sleep. Entire unconscious monologues."  
  
Christophe frowns. "You were the one reciting along. Stop that. I don't want you meddling with my dreams."  
  
"You can hear me? The man can hear me! Do you listen to me?"  
  
"Yes, and I think you're a fool."  
  
"Don't say that."  
  
"I'll say what I please. Stop interfering with my dreams. They're my dreams."  
  
Rodolphe grins. "I like interfering."  
  
Exasperated, Christophe gives up, gathering a few books together. "Good-night, Grantaire."  
  
"Don't go yet."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because I asked. But that's not a good reason. Why should you listen to me? What right on earth do I have to ask you anything? Beg pardon, of course, Lord Hamlet."  
  
"Do you have any idea how much I hate being called that?" Christophe turns away.  
  
Rodolphe catches him by the shoulder and turns him back, kissing him quickly and softly, and, as always, with the air of a child taking something he shouldn't. "I'm sorry, then."  
  
Christophe doesn't move. "You really must stop doing that."  
  
"Must I? I shan't." Rodolphe kisses him again, and this time, Christophe finds himself returning it just the slightest bit.  
  
It's nice to have someone show him affection, although it oughtn't be. It's such a difference from the way the Amis regard him, because that's exactly as Pontmercy said. Somehow he's convinced them he's distant and cold and wouldn't ever have time for love or anything of the sort. It's only that he doesn't want to be distracted from his work because he can't afford to be, and he tries not to be. He tries to concentrate on the fifty thousand things that are always taking up his mind, every hour of the day. There's school; there's all the writing - always something to finish that isn't finished that's always important - there's acting, and everything that comes with it, the rehearsing and the performances and needing to remember all the lines! There are fencing classes, those, that he's been forgetting to go to recently. There's never much time to sleep. There are meetings at the café when they can be stuffed in among all the clutter. He never has time for anything, because he has to free France and write papers for school and learn to be Hamlet all at once, and sometimes it's hard to remember which is most important. He never wanted to be the sort of man Courfeyrac is, and spend all his time with grisettes. Before all the many things, he used to imagine he might *try* to fall in love and have a wife. It was Fate being heartless that had caused him to want the one girl who was Pontmercy's sweetheart.  
  
And between all the *hell* that is making up his life right now, it can't be wrong to want a little affection from someone. So he returns the kiss just the slightest, and tries not to feel guilty for it.  
  
"Poor, ragged Hamlet," Rodolphe whispers, and Christophe doesn't argue. 


	12. Remember Not to Open the Oven Door

"Grapes and Pears"  
  
Christophe-Marie returns to the cafe on the following morning. Hamlet is ragged; Hamlet is falling to bits; and someone may patch a coat with Hamlet, if he doesn't find a thread. Rodolphe sits in the back room at the back table as he does every day, drinking, and Christophe accosts Courfeyrac without looking at him. He looks tired today, more tired than previous, and his golden hair is rather mussed. Still, as Rodolphe said, he is an Enjolras, and he retains his dignity while making his request.  
  
"Courfeyrac, I want you to help me with my lines. The play is in two weeks."  
  
Courfeyrac smiles, lazily, and leans back in his chair. "Two weeks? That's frightful soon, lord Hamlet, and you're not ready yet?"  
  
"I should never presume to be ready with anything. Being ready is a form of perfection, and I doubt I have accomplished that."  
  
"Gracious! No, you haven't, I expect. Well, where do you want me to read from?"  
  
Christophe-Marie holds the book out wearily, open at Act III Scene II. "There. From there."  
  
"Enjolras, may I seek to dissuade you? You look dreadful. I think, rather than at memorising, the day was better spent in bed for you." For once, Courfeyrac looks rather serious, holding the script-book in one hand and making a gesture with it. "You don't seem ill, but all the same..."  
  
"*No*. Good God, Courfeyrac, I'm fine. But I have a play in two weeks, and I requested your help. If you do not wish to give it, I shall seek it elsewhere." Christophe is sharp; he is cold and he speaks with the slight quickness of irritation. A fine actor, Rodolphe reflects. He suspects Enjolras is also quite dead on his feet.  
  
"Seek it elsewhere, then. It's all the same to me. I'm here for everyone's amusement, and if you're not amused, then I'm not doing my job, now, am I? Take your play, sir, and there's an end." Courfeyrac holds the book back out, expression inquiring.  
  
Christophe takes it, slowly, and turns, leaving the cafe. Such a waste of time. Such an utter waste. Because that would barely have made a scene in a decent play, unless something came of it, and nothing would. He walked into the cafe, he spoke shortly, and he left again, and it was all meaningless. He doesn't intend to pay heed to what Courfeyrac said, and therefore nothing occurred but a brief pass of words.  
  
Of course he wasn't ill. And what did Courfeyrac mean, saying so? He's fine, only a little tired, because after Grantaire kissed him, he went home and couldn't sleep. Only that. He'd told Grantaire no (perfectly readily!) and come home. It had only been a matter of not being able to sleep. Sometimes he thinks too much...  
  
Christophe startles as Grantaire comes up behind him, touching his shoulder lightly.  
  
"Enjolras. Slow down. God, you walk a pace when you're angry."  
  
"Go away."  
  
"No."  
  
"Go *away*."  
  
"Enjolras. You should listen. You should listen to someone besides yourself."  
  
"If by 'someone' you mean yourself or Courfeyrac, I have no desire to. There's nothing to hear."  
  
"And that," Rodolphe says with a kind of furious satisfaction, "is exactly what I mean. Tell yourself that enough times and you'll believe it, *especially* as you don't listen to anyone else's opinion. Courfeyrac's a good man, if a bit of an ass. A good man! Do you remember when I told you about clichés? You're only deceiving yourself. Isn't that a nice cliché? But it's true. Slow down!" Everything Rodolphe has just said was mixed in with panting, from the little run-skip dance it takes to stay just alongside of Christophe.  
  
"Why should I? I don't want to hear what you have to say!"  
  
"See if *that* stops me--"  
  
"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Christophe hisses, finally halting.  
  
"Because you can't take care of yourself. And also, you need a Horatio. Horatio's in that scene you wanted Courfeyrac to read with you. I can read."  
  
"Supposing, just supposing, Grantaire, I don't want you to read it?"  
  
"Then you're in a lovely spot, because I want to, and you don't want me to, and we can both be utterly pig-headed, so we'll have a nice stalemate, shall we?"  
  
Christophe-Marie sighs in exasperation, and turns away. "Only for an hour, and then I swear to God I'm turning you out."  
  
"You do that," Rodolphe tells him complacently.  
  
"And you had best go when I say. You know this is because I need to rehearse?"  
  
Rodolphe pauses a moment, looking at him. "Yes. Yes, I think I do. Not because I'm insistent; that would never move you to anything. Because you need to rehearse. I believe it."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Quite so. May I come see this play when you've finished with it?"  
  
"If you can afford to get in," Christophe says dubiously, with a clear air of not expecting it to be so.  
  
"I'll wager I can. Oughtn't be too terribly difficult. What's Horatio like, Enjolras?"  
  
"He's short, and quite dark."  
  
"Hm. I expect he's quite vile."  
  
Christophe gives him a look of pure bemusement. "You sound just like Courfeyrac. We had this same discussion over Ophelia."  
  
"Heaven forefend. Is she short and quite dark, too, then?"  
  
"She's *fair*," Christophe mutters.  
  
"Quite so, quite so. Here; may I have that book?" Christophe gives the script-book to him, and Rodolphe flips through it, carefully. "There we are. A good act, Act III. You praise your Horatio in this Act, don't you? Yes, you do. How nice."  
  
Christophe-Marie ignores him, holding the door of his room open, as they have reached it.  
  
"In."  
  
Rodolphe grins, and scampers in, sitting on the floor with the book in his hands. Christophe shuts the door, and crossing the room, sits on the bed.  
  
"'Act III, Scene II," Rodolphe announces, "A hall in the castle. Enter Hamlet and three of the players'."  
  
"'Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue'," Christophe begins.  
  
Exactly an hour later, he stops abruptly, and gestures at the door with a pen picked deftly off his bedside table. "Leave, please."  
  
Rodolphe looks at him innocently. "And yet, my lord, we were in the middle of Scene III."  
  
"I said an hour. I meant it. Do not think that because I am tired I will allow you to take advantage of it."  
  
"You intend, you mean, that nothing shall disturb your lovely, Enjolraic orders. An Enjolras you are, and an Enjolras never allows anything to make him seem weak. Well, that's no matter. I'll go."  
  
"Good."  
  
Rodolphe laughs, and stands beside Christophe for a moment. "I hate you, too," he says, and kisses Christophe's cheek. Then he moves, with a great air of congeniality, to the door.  
  
"I never said I hated you," Christophe-Marie complains, but already Rodolphe is gone. 


	13. Poke a Knife in and See if it's Ready

"'Clover dipped in honey, and vanilla frosting...'"  
  
Christophe-Marie awakens feeling tired, hot, and utterly bored with the room around him. His first thought is to try and sleep again, but he knows from experience that it only makes him feel worse. So he gets out of bed, changes his clothes, and listlessly begins to practice with his blade. Practice is, however, dull without a partner, and he gives up in a few moments, though he doesn't put down the weapon.  
  
"I never said I hated you," he repeats, but this time he tells the foil instead of Grantaire. "I never said I hated you." Christophe lunges on the wall, and stops just before the tip of the blade hits. "I never said-- I said--" He turns around, losing interest, because on such days as this, nothing can ever hold one's attention long.  
  
On the one hand there's the cafe. But that will mean seeing Grantaire. On the other hand, there's staying home. But his room is too hot and too small and too familiar. He puts a hand to his forehead. Ophelia. Cosette. He spins about on one foot, and parries the air. Hamlet. Horatio. He picks up the script-book from his bedside table, and flips it open. Horatio. Grantaire. Christophe sighs, and collapses on the bed. He never sleeps well. Why is to-day any different?  
  
He can't go out into the city, for he's certain he'd walk to Cosette's house. Even sore lack of company wouldn't make him seek out Courfeyrac. He doesn't want to listen to Combeferre. He doesn't want to see Pontmercy ever. He can't face Grantaire.  
  
Of a sudden, he's very lonely.  
  
"I never said I hated you."  
  
Christophe lunges on the wall again, and this time forgets to stop. His beautiful blade, his blunt foil, snaps against it. He freezes, and drops it, his hand aching from the shock.  
  
"I never said I hated you..."  
  
Well, there's an end to that. He sits on the bed, helplessly, puts his face in his hands for the barest moment, and then springs back on his feet. He catches up the pieces of his foil, and puts them lightly on his pillow. He rocks back and forth on his toes, looking in frustration at the door.  
  
"What shall I do now?"  
  
At last he throws up his hands, and leaves for the cafe. It looks exactly as it did yesterday, and the day before that. He sits unhappily at a table not far from Grantaire's.  
  
"Enjolras?" Rodolphe looks over, eyebrows raised.  
  
"I never said I hated you," Christophe repeats once again.  
  
"Hellfire. You haven't been bothering about that all this time? Good lord, m'sieur, I'd almost forgotten I'd said it at all. It's no matter."  
  
"Oh," says Christophe weakly, flushing a little. "Of course not."  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
"I'm fine..."  
  
"Oh, good God. Are we forever to have this unfailing question-and-answer? 'Are you all right?' 'I'm fine'; I know you're not all right, and you know it too!"  
  
"Be *quiet*."  
  
"No! I'm sick of this, and it hath made me ill. Go home!" Rodolphe gestures at the door angrily, sitting up a little. Folk in the cafe are staring at them.  
  
"For God's sake, Grantaire!" Christophe whispers, quite as angry. "You're drunk!"  
  
"I always am. I don't see where it comes into this." Rodolphe stands, and comes over beside Christophe's table. "You will go home." He pounds his fist on the tabletop, but it doesn't manage to be very impressive.  
  
"Very well. I didn't want to come in the first place."  
  
"What?" Rodolphe stops short, quite shocked. That an Enjolras should obey him is utterly unheard of.  
  
"I'm going." Christophe stands. "Come with me. Perhaps I shall rehearse at home."  
  
"I'm beginning to hate this damned play," Rodolphe mutters quietly, but he follows obediently as Christophe-Marie starts back home. "Are you quite all right? I'm asking and mean it this time."  
  
"No. Why should I be all right?" Christophe answers simply. He's tired of pretending all the time. Perhaps he's tired of acting. At any rate, he can't be bothered to keep up the pretence of Untouchable Leader of the Revolution.  
  
"Why aren't you?"  
  
"I'm tired, and discontent, and--" 'Tired', and 'discontent' are weaknesses, but in a peculiar way, they're both dignified weaknesses. They're easily forgiven, easily understood. 'Lonely', on the other hand, is not any of these things. "I don't know," Christophe finishes.  
  
"Of course you don't."  
  
"I don't know!"  
  
They are quiet for a while.  
  
"I'm saving. I intend to see this play, even if it causes me to lose valuable drink that could be purchased with the money."  
  
"Oh, hell. You're coming?"  
  
"Surely. Will you demand that I shouldn't?"  
  
"No. Come if you like." Christophe sighs dismally.  
  
When at last they arrive at his room, he goes in first, and tries to get the pieces of the broken foil out of sight. They've become a mark of failing. Rodolphe shuts the door silently.  
  
"Sit down."  
  
Rodolphe does so; he sits on the bed quite shamelessly. Christophe feels rather as though he doesn't have the strength to be irritated, and he sits there as well, wearily.  
  
Rodolphe reaches over and touches his hair gently. "Are you ill?"  
  
"No. Just tired."  
  
"I see."  
  
"No, you don't." Christophe shakes his head a little. "Oh, I want to sleep forever. But I can't, and I don't want to. I want to-- I don't want to do anything to-day. But I *do*!"  
  
"Be quiet, you. And go to sleep."  
  
"I don't want to. I hate my room. The paper is yellow."  
  
"For God's sake!" Rodolphe cries, exasperated. "Bloody go to sleep! Ill Enjolrases, what a horror. What a terror. I pity your nursemaid when you were small. Go to sleep!"  
  
"All right..." Christophe makes to lie down, then pauses.  
  
"Why in hell are you looking at me like that? Do you want me to kiss you good-night?"  
  
"No! --You're going to leave while I'm asleep, aren't you?"  
  
"Not if you don't want me to."  
  
"Oh... All right, then." Christophe lies down at last, and Rodolphe sighs, rolling his eyes. Then he relents, and ruffles Christophe's hair a little, and kisses his forehead.  
  
He spends the next four hours or so shifting positions, trying to stay comfortable. One of the most boring things in the world is waiting around with someone who is fast asleep.  
  
"Damn you," he mumbles at length, and pokes Christophe between his shoulder blades. Christophe stirs, and blinks a little.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing. Go back to sleep."  
  
"I'm not tired." Christophe sits up, and twists around. "I'm fine now."  
  
"I'm sure you are. Do you want to rehearse, then?"  
  
"Not now." Breaking the blade seems as though it happened rather a long time ago, and Christophe is quite disoriented, as one always is after sleeping during the day. "Or perhaps... Yes. Yes, I would."  
  
Rodolphe grins, and picks up the script-book. "Very good, my lord. We shall do that."  
  
"Mm." Christophe curls up on the bed, waiting for his cue. For some reason, he feels so much better at last. 


	14. Well, Turn it Out on the Cooling Rack Ca...

"'Spicy duck laced with basil and flame...'"  
  
His tunic is black. His tunic is always black velvet; long and smooth and down to his knees. It rumples, and he flattens it down with his thin white fingers. He does it oftener than the tunic rumples, just because velvet feels so nice under his hands. His hair is fluffed, a little, but mostly it's still lying flat the way it ought.  
  
He wonders why he thought still. It's not as though his hair is suddenly going to start standing straight up.  
  
About him, courtiers are talking, talking, talking, to each other about everything, anything that comes into their empty heads and makes them want to make a conversation with someone else. He despises them quite, as he despises most people.  
  
The King is holding a discussion with someone, which he isn't listening to. He never does listen to the King. The King has a name, and it would be more proper to call him by that than by King, since he isn't, but only King is impersonal enough.  
  
He looks around the big room, tiled all in blue. He used to like the colour blue, a very long time ago... Now he's all in blacks and purples. He scans the crowd of courtiers, and of a sudden meets a pair of eyes he knows. How odd. Whose are those eyes? They're rather large; brown; and the lashes are quite dark. The rest of the face is part of a large melt of colour that smears all the King's court together. He has nothing to recognise but the eyes.  
  
He starts as the King addresses him, and tries to catch up on what was said. "My son," he catches, and he turns his eyes heavenward. He looks back into the crowd for the eyes, and informs them sadly:  
  
"A little more than kin, and a little less than kind."  
  
"How is it the clouds still hang on you?" the King asks.  
  
"Not so, my lord; I am too much in the sun," he turns back. It's odd how his best wit comes out of misery, and how *no one ever notices*. He sighs, and his mother speaks. Her voice was sweet... Once.  
  
All that lives must die?  
  
"Ay, madam, it is common," he tells her, bitterly. And then, a moment later, "Seems, madam!" He throws his hands up. "Nay, it *is*: I know not 'seems'! 'T is not alone my inky cloak, good mother, nor customary suits of solemn black, nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath, no, nor the fruitful river in the eye, nor the dejected haviour of the visage, together with all forms, mood, shapes of grief, that can denote me truly!" For some reason, he thinks something reproves him for so long a sentence. And how dare it? "These indeed seem, for they are actions that a man might play; but I have that within which passeth show, these but the trappings and the suits of woe." He frowns. It's much to easier to frown than smile.  
  
And then the King begins talking at him. Damn the man. Talk, talk, talk. He looks to the eyes for sympathy, and they show concentration. They're fixed on his movement, but not on him. He feels a light annoyance. They're too busy trying to understand what he's doing to be able to understand him.  
  
His mother, the once-sweet Queen, speaks, and he recites, "I shall in all my best obey you, madam," to her. How sad Denmark is! Everyone is a little paper figure speaking paper words. He is the only thing real. He glances over his shoulder surreptitiously. He and the eyes.  
  
The King leaves; the Queen leaves; the meaningless courtiers scatter away. He doesn't know why, as he missed it. Is it to be forever this way? Everyone leaves, and he doesn't know why because he wasn't listening. Will he die, and will no one know why because no one was listening to him?  
  
"O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolves itself into a dew!" Would it be nice to melt into the blue room and become part of the blue draperies, soft and velvet like his clothes, but unconscious of life and the trouble it brings with it? "Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd his canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!"  
  
Somewhere the eyes are watching him, though they should have gone out with the entire mass of fawning colour.  
  
"How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on 't! ah fie! 'T is an unweeded garden, that grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature possess it merely. That it should come thus! But two months dead:" and here his voice grows hoarse just a little in indignation and disbelief, "Nay, not so much, not two... So excellent a King, that was, to this Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother that he might not beteem the winds of heaven visit her face too roughly--heaven and earth! Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him, as if increase of appetite had grown by what it fed on; and yet, within a month--let me not think on 't!--Frailty! thy name is woman!" He feels helpless. Everything he says feels helpless. Half-memories... the misery of it. Misery. Yes. He is miserable.  
  
And the eyes, somewhere, are reproaching him for what he said of woman! To think...  
  
"A little month, or o're those shoes were old with which she followed my poor father's body, like Niobe, all tears--why she, even she--O God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, would have mourn'd longer--married with my uncle, my father's brother, but no more like my father than I to Hercules!" He despises everyone, and he despises himself. Does it matter? "Within a month, ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears had left the flushing in her galled eyes, she married. O, most wicked speed, to post with such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good: But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue."  
  
He stops, and his chest hurts. Whether this is from sorrow, or from speaking too fast--ah, but it's sorrow. His ache? It cannot be anything less.  
  
~~~  
  
"How does my good lord Hamlet?" the old man inquires, a figure in robes of purple and grey wound into each other, to dilute the purple. After all, Polonius is no king.  
  
"Well, God-a-mercy!" He smoothes down his own black tunic, forseeing his madness required. Ah yes, he's mad by now, and it's not very hard any longer, not very hard. It hasn't been in a while. He happily rakes his hands through fluffy golden--it's fluffy now, how odd. So it was a still, earlier--making certain of the liberal pieces of rosemary, then takes his stance, pulling a book off a nearby table and flipping it open. He feels the eyes watching him, and nearly smirks.  
  
"Do you know me, my lord?"  
  
He feels quite gleeful to answer. He consults his book, running a slender forefinger over the printed lines, and finally looks up. "Excellent, excellent well. You are a fishmonger." Sometimes, when it proves that insolent things he's longed his life to say are sayable when mad, he doesn't mind at all the ease of madness.  
  
"Not I, my lord."  
  
The subtle glare of the old fool does not escape him. And yet another person calling him, "my lord". Don't they ever stop? Ophelia was unfortunate enough.  
  
"Then I would you were so honest a man."  
  
The expressions the fellow manages are worth all of Denmark. In all likelihood, he has no idea his face looks so. It's dreadfully amusing, in a sordid sort of way.  
  
"Honest, my lord?"  
  
Any man is more honest than you are, he thinks. Honesty? Honesty is something no one in this entire court possesses. Not him. Not even the eyes. Nothing. Everyone lies. "Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten-thousand."  
  
He pauses. Is the old man *agreeing* with him? How peculiar. "For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god kissing carrion--have you a daughter?" And that's a good piece of insanity. Would that maggots were eating old Polonius.  
  
"I have, my lord."  
  
He's no one's lord. Has he ever been so? Why do they say that? Why do they say...? "Let her not walk i' th' sun:" he says distractedly, "conception is a blessing, but as your daughter may conceive--Friend, look to 't."  
  
He strokes his book unhappily, touching the cover, the spine, the wonderful spin of pages--all so thin, brushing his fingertips. He looks up sharply as Polonius speaks again, asking what is it he reads. Oh, was he reading?  
  
"Words, words, words!" He throws his arms out, splaying the book wide open; and then waving it in old man's face.  
  
"What is the matter, my lord?" the man asks, eyes a bit wide.  
  
He adopts surprise. "Between who?"  
  
"I mean, the matter that you read, my lord."  
  
He pulls the book close, stroking the flat pages, tapping them with his fingers. "Slanders, sir; for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams: yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for yourself, sir, shall grow as old as I am, if like a crab you could go backwards." He smiles into the book. Does the old man even know he's being insulted? Of course he does. That's what makes it so foolish. He knows, and there's not much he can do. One doesn't collar the King's mad son.  
  
"Will you walk out of the air?"  
  
"Into my grave?"  
  
"Indeed, that is out of the air."  
  
Does he think himself *clever*?  
  
"My lord, I will take my leave of you."  
  
Escaping! Oh, the poor old man, trying to get away. How frightening is a madman? "You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will not more willingly part withal--except my life, except my life, except my life!"  
  
"Fareyouwell, my lord."  
  
And suddenly, the old man is imperturbable. He hates Polonius. "These tedious old *fools*!" Would he weep, were it possible?  
  
~~~  
  
"Why, let the strucken deer go weep, the hart ungalled play; for some must watch, whilst some must sleep--thus runs the world away," he sings. Is it a pretty voice singing? Was his voice ever beautiful? Oh, the King is frightened, that he ran. They all ran after him. Everyone left.  
  
It is only him, then, standing on one of those furry horseskin rugs by himself, singing verses that mean nothing to anyone else. But is he alone? Oh, no... It's Horatio. Dear, beloved Horatio, the only man in Denmark with any mind. Honesty. Was he searching for honesty some time ago? If he was, he's found it now.  
  
"Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers--if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me--with two Provincial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir?" He asks this of Horatio sweetly, for Horatio is sweet, and deserves it.  
  
"Half a share." Ah, how solemn Horatio is.  
  
"A whole one, I." He smiles a little, and sings again. "For thou dost know, O Damon dear, this realm dismantled was of Jove himself, and now reigns here a very, very--pajock."  
  
"You might have rhymed," says Horatio quietly.  
  
"O good Horatio, I'll take the ghost's word for a thousand pound. Didst perceive?" Suddenly, he feels terribly cold, through the velvet sleeves of his tunic.  
  
"Very well, my lord."  
  
"Upon the talk of the poisoning?" he presses.  
  
"I did very well note him."  
  
So calm! so quiet, Horatio is. "Ah, ha! Come, some music! Come, the recorders! For if the King likes not the comedy, why then, belike, he likes it not, perdy! Come, some music!" He laughs, and it's more bitter than it was three ages ago. It's so bitter it tastes awful, and he wonders if one can spit away laughter.  
  
~~~  
  
He doesn't see Horatio again for a terribly long time, and when he does, he's been over the sea and back. The smell of salt won't go away from his clothes no matter how hard he tries to make it. He walks straight and steady, and pretends he can't smell it when he speaks with Horatio.  
  
"So much for this, sir; now you shall see the other--you do remember all the circumstances?"  
  
"Remember it, my lord!" Horatio says emphatically. This makes him smile. Of course Horatio wouldn't forget how he left.  
  
"Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting that would not let me sleep; methought I lay worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly--and prais'd be the rashness for it: let us know our indiscretion sometimes serves us well when our deep plots do pall; and that should learn us there's a divinity shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will--"  
  
"That is most certain," Horatio agrees.  
  
"Up from my cabin, my sea-gown scarf'd about me, in the dark grop'd I to find out them, had my desire, finger'd their packet; and in fine withdrew to mine own room again, making so bold, my fears forgetting manners, to unseal their grand commission; where I found, Horatio--ah, royal knavery!--an exact command, larded with many sorts of reasons importing Denmark's health, and England's too, with, ho! such bugs and goblins in my life, that, on the supervise, no leisure bated, no, not to stay the grinding of the axe, my head should be struck off!"  
  
And Horatio is properly horrified, and for the first time in a very long time, a loneliness abates a bit. Horatio is such a good man; and he shall always have a companion in Horatio.  
  
~~~  
  
"And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest..."  
  
Those are the last words he needs to hear. They're the last cues to do anything, and now all he must do is lie still while everyone else makes final movements around him.  
  
And five minutes later, the spell is broken.  
  
Ernest shakes Christophe-Marie, and makes him stand up, pushing him into the center of the company. Everyone bows like clockwork, and Delphine staggers a little, shocked that it's over. They'll all shocked, really; they all escape into the wings to put away costumes and get out of theatre, and Ernest remarks cheerfully that this is only opening night, too.  
  
Christophe gets away first, and hurries into the crowd. He is accosted quickly by a hand on his arm.  
  
"That was quite excellent. Utterly engaging."  
  
"Hell! Grantaire!" Christophe rather squawks.  
  
"Hell, Grantaire? But that's mundane. That's everyday. This was the opening night of the play you've been driving me mad with the last--how long?"  
  
"I've been rehearsing three months."  
  
"Three months! There you are! Now, curse at me with something befitting the work of three months."  
  
"I wasn't cursing at you, Grantaire."  
  
"Oh, that's nice. You look exhausted." There's a faint hint of asking a question.  
  
"I fear I am." Christophe looks straight at Grantaire for a moment, and realises that his eyes are large, brown, and oddly familiar. "*You*," he announces accusingly, "were meeting my eyes the entire play long. Don't you know that's wrong?"  
  
"Gracious, I'd no idea. You could have looked away." Rodolphe laughs. "Yes, you could have. It's the sensible thing to have done. But you're not sensible. Don't worry, I don't mind in the least."  
  
"For God's sake, be quiet and let me go home. I'm tired. I want to sleep more than anything in the world." He wonders, vaguely, why he's admitted this to Grantaire. It's quite possibly not a wise thing to have done.  
  
"All right."  
  
Christophe waits expectantly for Grantaire to depart, but they continue walking and the latter shows no sign of leaving. He realises, with a sigh, that it's quite likely Grantaire's invited himself along. Unfortunately, for the second time in a week, Christophe hasn't the energy to make him go away.  
  
He doesn't live far from the theatre, and rather a bit further he finds himself at his door. He enters quietly, and Grantaire slips along behind him.  
  
Christophe-Marie turns just before he enters his room, and glares blearily at Grantaire. "I am going to go inside this room. I am then going to shut the door behind me, and you will be outside. There is no possible way you are coming inside, and as soon as the door is shut, I shall lock it and go immediately to sleep. Do you understand me?"  
  
"Very well, my lord."  
  
Rodolphe touches Christophe's cheek, then kisses him, to his annoyance. He's too much used to Rodolphe doing it, however, to wake up at all from it. It's a soft kiss; one of Rodolphe's usual unsure kisses that feel as though he's afraid of them. Christophe returns it quite without knowing what he's doing, liking the affection and softness. Is it strange that a sot should have such a sweet kiss? he wonders drowsily.  
  
The moment, however, that Rodolphe ends it, he ducks into his room and, true to his word, locks the door behind him, collapsing on the bed.  
  
Oddly enough, his dreams all have to do with "Lear". 


	15. And There, Mon Cher, You Have a Cake

Epilogue  
  
When he awakens, the only thing he can bring himself to do is lie there, looking up at the ceiling. It's morning. There's light coming in from the window. The light falls, oddly enough, right over his chest, glittering in his buttons and making him almost too warm. Clutched in his left hand is the blade half of the foil he'd broken. He holds it up and sighs, then drops his arm. He pauses a few moments, considering. At last, he gives up and climbs out of bed.  
  
His room is still ugly and papered in yellow. He turns around in a circle, spinning on his toes. There isn't enough in it, that's part of the trouble with it. There's a full-length mirror for practicing in front of, but it only creates another ugly yellow room. What needs to be done is something must be added. He needs something else in his room, to make it whole and fill it up.  
  
He stops spinning, and waits for the nausea to pass.  
  
Then, suddenly, he turns to the door and unlocks it. Grantaire is curled up in the doorway, asleep. Christophe-Marie tilts his head, and nudges Grantaire in the side with his toe, feeling glad that's he's there, somehow.  
  
"Wake up. I thought you'd stay around. You always do, don't you? So damnably persistent. Come in."  
  
Rodolphe groans and stands up, blinking at Christophe and rubbing the back of his neck. "Bloody doorway. Put in a few pillows, why don't you? It'll make everything so much easier for me."  
  
"I don't intend to make my doorway easier for you to sleep in. Come inside." He stands off to the side, still holding the blade, and twitching it to direct Grantaire. At the same time, he looks Grantaire over; his large, dark eyes, his old clothes, his whole face with its half-cynical, half-gentle expression, which has never made any sense. He's ugly, but not unpleasant, Christophe realises.  
  
Grantaire is also quite obedient to-day; he sits on the bed as usual, and raises his eyebrows quizzically, but does no more. Christophe turns around again, looking about his room. Finally he sits on the bed beside Grantaire and asks, in a perfectly soft, reasonable voice:  
  
"What on earth should I call you? You're obviously not quite Grantaire any longer, and it's starting to pull on my nerves."  
  
Rodolphe laughs. "My mother named me Rodolphe. Is that suitable?"  
  
"It sounds very like Christophe, doesn't it? The endings. Hm." Christophe-Marie frowns. "I dream about the things you told me, you know. You went on and on about the Amis and how I judge them too much on their appearances rather than their characters, and I began to dream about them."  
  
"Oh, splendid. I *am* making an influence on you."  
  
"Yes, you're interfering with my dreams *again*. I'm not in the least pleased."  
  
"Lovely. But there's more?" Rodolphe gives him an amused smile. "There's got to be more. What else have I done?"  
  
"Nothing, as of yet. But I've brought you in to tell you I don't dislike you as much as I previously claimed. That is to say, I don't any longer find you as annoying. Or rather," he tries again, feeling as though he'll never be able to say what he means.  
  
"What?" Rodolphe is laughing softly, his shoulders shaking and his expression delighted.  
  
Christophe puts his face in his hands. "Nothing. I'm not saying this correctly. Damn, but it's so awkward. Do you have any idea-And you're not making it any easier!"  
  
With a grin, Rodolphe reaches over and touches Christophe's arm. "Difficulty in expressing one's own thoughts. Betrayal by one's own lips and mind. Anyway, you've brought me here to tell me that I am no longer a hated and despised creature. Alas, now, I'm only worthy of indifference. I shall make haste to drown myself."  
  
"Is it possible that you could stop twisting everything I say?"  
  
"Only slightly. I enjoyed your play. I think I told you that last night, but in all honesty, I can't remember. I also think I would have made a much better Horatio, despite the fact that I've never acted and certainly never set foot on a stage once in my entire useless life."  
  
"Oh, yes, you would have been a better Horatio, and Cosette would have been a better Ophelia," Christophe mutters, and Rodolphe looks up sharply.  
  
"Ah, your pretty sweetheart who I was once to look after."  
  
"Not my pretty sweetheart. Pontmercy's. But it doesn't matter. It's quite over, Grantaire." At last he means it. It was always over, he adds to himself. There was never anything to begin with. It was a mistake of his, an infatuation.  
  
Everyone makes mistakes.  
  
"You've asked my name, and then call me Grantaire. Well, that's all right. I do think Hamlet's still ragged, Enjolras."  
  
"Yes, well, that's because none of my loose ends are tied up," Christophe says helplessly, to excuse himself. This is quite true. The only one that begins to be finished is the play, and he's still got another performance of that to-night. But oddly enough, he doesn't care. Anyone has loose ends, but, he realises, he's got time to tie them up, hasn't he? There's an insurrection, a revolution, which he must create, but in the meantime, there're more than enough moments and days to fix things. And right now he's happy. He's quite happy. Rodolphe, as he'd suspected that morning, makes his room look far better than it did before.  
  
"That would be orderly. Orderly things are no good," Rodolphe says, and by this time Christophe's forgotten what he's replying to. His train of thought has rather taken him away from the loose ends. Rodolphe is quite right, orderly things are a waste of time. He wishes that he'd realised that before now.  
  
Rodolphe laughs. "You're not listening to a word I say, are you? No." He takes Christophe-Marie's hands and kisses them. Then he smiles. "Your hands smell of rosemary, lord."  
  
Fin 


End file.
